


Silver and Gold

by FreyaLor



Series: Blood red silk [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:24:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9920885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: From the first time Treville truly looked at him, and, after that, a long string of very first times.





	1. Thirty guns

**Author's Note:**

> This is Richelieu and Treville pushed a little bit closer to the true historical men, who indeed have common background : the siège of La Rochelle.  
> Those men have really lived through the greatest years of France together.  
> It's history blended with the BBC fiction series, which isn't as far fetched from the truth as you would expect.  
> It's still a fic, and it's still filthy gay smut.  
> It's first person POV, but don't be alarmed. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing !

 

 

 

**- « Show me two lines written in a man's hand and I'll find there a reason to hang him”.**

 

 

It was at this moment, I think. When he laid down those words in a silken voice, side by side neatly disposed, as the pearls in a collar. It was at this moment I stopped hearing him, and truly listened. I stopped seeing him, maybe, and truly _looked_.

 

The King was once again hurting himself with painful stubbornness against the high walls of the Cardinal's principles. I had seen the young and imperious Louis hold onto a belief of his with pride and despair, trying to the death of all words to prove his right a hundred times. I had seen Richelieu, chin held high, thin fingers dancing upon the mantlepiece, robes sliding on the wooden floor like a handful of snakes, tearing his arguments apart a hundred times. I had heard this conversation so often it actually turned my stomach.

 

But this phrase I don't know why, pulled me out of the dignified lethargy I used to sink into during those fights of theirs, I stopped seeing him, maybe.

I truly looked.

 

 

While the King's voice rose up to new heights, wine and childish rage boiling in his heart, I frowned and stared, following the gracious moves of the whispering snakes, and I noticed two things.

 

One. When his hands weren't moving so much, they were trembling.

 

And his eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

-”What do you think, Captain Treville?” The King called out. “Are all men as guilty as the Cardinal seems to think?”

 

Oh, Lord.

 

I always hated when he pulled me out of his pocket like that, to wave me under Richelieu's nose for the sake of one more pointless argument. I had to knit some form of wisdom, please the one and not upset the other, and Lord I hated this to the bone.

I straightened up, the clacking sound of my heels whipping me to life, and I set my eyes on the safe ground between the King's shoulder and the curtains.

 

-”I am a soldier, your Majesty. I am not fit to judge anyone. I have seen good men. I have seen lesser ones. Battlefields tend to make little difference.”

 

Silence. I counted to three.

 

I looked up.

 

Richelieu was smiling.

 

 

Like a quiet praise to my tasteless, spineless sentence. He knew, of course, how words and I cannot be friends. How I could fight a hundred men, stand a hundred days of siege, but recoil in fear in front of a hundred words to say. He knew, I guess, because he knew everything.

 

The King pondered for a while, weighing my words and trying to have them curled into a ball and thrown at the Cardinal's head. In vain.

 

Spineless. Tasteless.

 

 

Safe.

 

 

Louis hissed, and strode towards the door, brushing Richelieu's shoulder, his intent of not giving any kind of salute very clear. To remind him of his place, I supposed. I never knew in which proportions love and hate battled in the King's guts each and every time the Cardinal stood close. But only him could send Louis growling in rage, furious, outraged, but, at the end, always, ever tamed.

 

As the King gestured for the door to be opened, Richelieu spoke softly, taking his time to turn to him in serene, graceful patience:

 

-”Your Majesty is right. It is late already, and rest would be wise. Your majesty hasn't forgotten of course, the early meeting I organized tomorrow with the dutch Ambassador, followed by a Council upon the very serious matter of corporations and trade.

 

Louis stopped dead and turned around, stricken. Because of course, he had forgotten. Guilt tore a hole into his resolve for one second, and it was all it took. Richelieu faced him, bowed slowly, and whispered :

 

-”Goodnight, your Majesty.”

 

Louis was trapped.

 

-”Goodnight, Cardinal.”

 

 

He nodded towards me. A bang of the doors, and silence graced the Cardinal's absolute victory.

 

 

 

 

I remember I admired his silhouette, turned away from me, outlined by the dimming candlelights. I distinctly recall taking a few minutes to stare in awe at the true ruler of France. I remember wondering how many sleepless nights, how many schemes and how many works of pure genius it took to crawl from his small countryside town of Luçon to the great lights of the Louvres. From dust to glory, from purple to blood red. Though I had spent most of my career running around this man in corridors and gardens to shout at his face all the contempt I had for his filthy methods, his quiet, resolute will, his iron and silent strength amazed me for a while.

 

 

Then, he spun around. His eyes burned pits in my chest, and a small cough as I retrieved my hat on the table was all I could think of.

 

-” Leaving also, Captain?”

 

 

His voice sounded softer. But how could I know. It was late, truly, and I was tired. I missed my garrison, my humble cot, and I thought about that bottle of cheap Bordeaux waiting in my cupboard.

 

-”As the King no longer requires my services...”

 

-”The wine has been opened. It is an excellent year. The King has it made from his own lands in Frontenac. Such a waste it would be to ignore it.”

 

His voice _was_ softer.

 

 

And as he handed to me a glass of the Royal Court's best wine, his hands were trembling again. I wondered why. So, I dropped my hat. So much for my cheap Bordeaux.

 

 

-”I hope things are going smoothly with your Musketeers?” He inquired politely.

 

 

I remember cursing myself for not running while I had the chance. More knitting words, more of that absurd dance. But the fool I had been, of course it wasn't just wine, right. It was wine and conversation. Wine and information. We were at the Louvres, for God's sake. Not in my exercise yard.

The Cardinal had been there earlier this day, as my audience to the King turned into this cheap comedy once more, my humble request for more funds to improve my garrison's equipment being waved away with a laugh for the third time. ”But, please, Treville, stay at the Louvres for supper”, Louis chimed, “I find your presence most agreeable”.

 

And he'd been there to see me boiling in frustrated silence, trapped like a cat in a cage, three steps behind the King as his senseless ballet of ministers and diplomat went on. From time to time I had felt Richelieu's eyes upon me, but I wasn't truly looking, then. I never truly did, until that very sentence, you see.

 

He had been there, he had seen everything. He knew why I was there. He knew the matters at hand, he knew my current business. So what information could he possibly hope to get from me? Was there still a single day of my life he hadn't read about in a report from his spies? We had been playing that insane game for years, so many years now.

 

-”My musketeers are performing their duties with heart and soul.”

 

 

Tasteless.

 

Richelieu took a slow sip of his glass.

 

Spineless.

 

He walked close, pretending to observe the wine through the light of an intricate sconce next to me.

 

Safe.

 

 

-”You can speak plainly, now, Treville”, he breathed.

 

I wondered why he even bothered. Why could he be remotely interested by my speaking my mind?

There must have been a plan, a tactic. There must have been something more. Of course, of course, it wasn't only wine.

 

It never was.

 

 

Oh, the Hell with that. In a thousand years I'll never get a hold of what's in that venomous, intricate mind of his.

 

I drained the half of my glass. The wine burned like a scorching sun. I'd fight, if things go bad. I'd fight. This I was good at.

He shifted, lending on the table next to me. His robes hissing like a handful of snakes. I looked up.

I noticed again. His hands trembled. And his eyes...

 

I don't think I had ever seen them from so close before. They looked like they swallowed the light. Like the stained glass of Sainte Chapelle. Like something sacred. Something good.

 

 

-”I need money to forge new weapons and uniforms, but the King told me repeatedly he has... other priorities.”

 

The second they left my mouth I bit against those words with dismay. I closed my eyes. Counted to three. Why the Hell had I said that? Why the Hell did I feel safe? Because he looked as exhausted as I was, because he stood close, his eyes circled in the red of bad omens, because he seemed so thin, because he seemed so good?

He was bloody Cardinal Richelieu, oh, fool, blind imbecile I had been. My worth was definitely only made by my sword. How long had we been playing that game, would I ever learn?

 

I remember looking at the door, knitting excuses, mumbling something about training, about sunrise.

 

-”How much?” he asked.

 

 

I paused and stared again. He looked ten years older, like a mask of light slowly fading. How many years, exactly had we played the game, how many?

How old were we?

 

It was late, truth be told, and the lines on his brow were writing tales of exactly how many sleepless nights it took from Luçon to the Louvres.

 

 

-”Two hundred livres would be a start. The barrels have to be forged right, with the correct amount of...”

 

-”You will have four by tomorrow evening.”

 

 

I nearly dropped my glass. Then I remembered to show at least a decent amount of control, and I took one more swig of the wine, so that my voice wouldn't be such a disaster as I gasped :

 

-”How the hell?”

 

 

He chuckled low in his throat, and I found the sound appeasing. I instantly wished I could hear more of those. I was so tired. Why did his hands shake that way?

 

-”The same way I obtain everything, Captain Treville.”

 

 

He stirred a bit and laid his empty glass on the table. Walking out, I thought his thin, subtle hand grazed my arm. But how could I know.

 

How could I know, it was so late, and something made his eyes shine like stained glass.

 

Something old, something deep.

 

-”I ask for it.”

 

Like agony.

 

 

 

***

 

 

The next evening, a messenger wearing the Royal Arms walked into my office just as I was considering pulling my old boots and belts out of my rusty bathtub and pouring in some hot water instead. The training had been painful. Those of my men who were good had become good enough to have me drenched in sweat and blood to keep on winning our practice fights, and the new recruits were bad enough to give me headaches after days of repeating myself.

 

 

-”Captain Treville” he said in a bow. “You are required at the Louvres this evening.”

 

I did my best to hide that sigh, to disguise it as a ruffle of my coat, but fool that I am, I'll never be good at lying.

 

-”I don't understand”, I plead for my skin. “The King has seen me yesterday and the day before. I have nothing to report, could he...”

 

-”It is not the King who requires your presence, Captain. It is his Eminence.”

 

 

 

I remember smiling a bit, because long before my first calculated word of reply, my guts had already jumped at the thought of yesterday night, and what Richelieu implied he'd do for me.

 

He had done it. He had done it of course. Wicked, shrewd, amazing man.

My Musketeers will have their new guns after all.

 

 

Beaming joy, I followed the henchman straight to the Louvres.

 

 

See how simple I am, this is my blessing and my curse, I spent the journey to the Cardinal's apartments so deep into my plans for those new pistols, that I was already at the bottom of his stairs when I realized who exactly I was to be indebted to.

I stopped, cursed out loud, clenching fists and looking down. This was bloody Richelieu. The Red Man, who literally walked into the King's heart upon dead bodies and cracking bones. What on Earth did I think. That he'll just hand me the money and send me back home with a pat on the shoulder? Those guns would double the aim of my best men, this was priceless for me. He knew that. He always knows everything. The twisted bastard had a plan, of course he did.

 

 

What would he ask of me?

 

What would he ask?

 

 

I checked around, no one to see me. I could have walked back. I could have. Pretend I had been called elsewhere, pretend... Delay until he had forgotten about it.

 

I shivered. No. The captain of the Royal Musketeers would not step back in front of a priest's door. I'd simply refuse the gold right into his face. I'd spit some truths at his vicious mask, and I'd fight, if things turn bad. I'd fight.

 

 

This I'm good at.

 

 

 

I kicked the heavy wooden door into the anteroom open. On the opposite wall, the door to his Eminence's reception hall wasn't locked. I stormed in like soldiers pierce the enemy lines, my mind screaming in silence, ready for battle, ready for everything.

 

 

 

Except him.

 

Collapsed in a high chair, his robes like a pool of bright red blood. White as a sheet, thin as death could be.

 

Unmoving.

 

 

 

 

Cursing some more, I ran to him, searching around for clues, shadows, footsteps. But as I came near his chair he slowly raised a pale, shaking hand in the sad mimicry of a comforting gesture.

 

-”Do not fret, Captain Treville, I am not dead. The dagger destined to cut my throat hasn't been forged yet.”

 

-”For God's sake, man, what happened to you? Should I call...”

 

-”You shall call no one.”

 

From behind the curtain of his fingers slowly massaging the brink of his nose his eyes rose up to life again, in frozen works of stained glass. I felt nailed to the ground. His voice was weak, but not enough to fail its purpose. My thirst for war dissolved into mild annoyance in seconds. What brought me to his side, I must admit, was nothing short of concern.

 

I examined his hands, his face. He looked three steps beyond exhaustion.

 

-”Are you sick?”

 

He shook his head in slow denial.

 

-”No. It's just...”

 

Again, an elegant, useless gesture of his thin hand, waving in the air, distracting me, why was it distracting me?

 

-”...headaches” he whispered.

 

-”They don't look like the regular kind.”

 

-”Nothing about me is of the regular kind.”

 

 

It could have sounded pompous, but it was said with one of those smiles, the same he had for my small safe sentences for the King, so I chuckled also.

 

 

Looking around for some wine, I managed to close and lock the door. I supposed he wouldn't have liked being seen like that by more passing men. I brought him a glass of something that looked like old Cognac, and sat next to him on a humbler chair at the dining table.

 

-”How long have you been … suffering those?”

 

 

As he gently rolled the glass between his hands to warm up the liquor, I noticed the trembling again, but I supposed I knew why by then.

 

I also noticed the brushstrokes of fire that candlelight, through the Cognac, sent into his eyes, and they revived my wariness. This was the Cardinal. The man who dictated the King's five last personal letters. The willpower of this reign. The mastermind of this nation.

 

-”You see, Treville, my problems are intricate and tangled. They are heavy with the lives and deaths, the honors and glory, the lands and the gold depending on them. Outside our borders, the Hapsburgs slowly encircle our land, city by city, wall after wall, and every single man, horse and cannon we have in France wouldn’t be enough to stop them. The only thing that keeps us from getting squeezed between the sea and German flags is our discrete funding of the Dutch and Swedish armies, enemies of the Habsburgs, only to maintain this fragile, insane balance of forces on this continent, and push back invaders to give France a proper space.”

 

I remember sitting very quiet for what seemed like an eternity. I knew about the Habsburgs of course, and the possibility of being commandeered straight to some eastern border to defend my country never left me. I always had one pair of saddle bags ready. But among the things that kept me silent this night was the fact that in one smooth, well-balanced sentence, the Cardinal gave me two of the most dangerous secrets of the court. One, the true purpose of the insane amount of taxes the King squeezed from farmers, crafters, traders and small landlords all across France. Two…

 

-“ The Netherlands and Sweden are protestant countries…” I whisper. Hah, as if he didn’t know.

 

-“ **Of course**!” he sneered, standing up in a whirl of bright red blood, his hand slashing the air as he could slay a dragon.

 

He walked to a high window behind me and delicately drew back one side of the heavy curtains, sighing to the night, to me, to no one :

 

-“Half of the Court’s income goes straight into protestant guns, and as things are going, trust my word, it isn’t going to end soon. In the same hour of the same day, I can sign an order to have one hundred thousand livres shipped to Sweden, and another piece of paper with an hundred protestant names to be hanged the next morning in southern Limousin.”

 

He put down his glass of Cognac. A somewhat more human flesh tone had come back to his cheeks, and he didn’t need it anymore. But was it the liquor or the speech itself that lifted him from slouched to standing, from death to life, from a sigh to a chant, I don’t think I’ll ever know.

 

-“France deserves more” he claimed. “France deserves to see its flag floating from the Pyrenees to the higher snows of the Alps, and from there all the way up to Luxembourg. And once those flags will be planted firmly into the ground, I want everyone outside to step back in fear of death and humiliation. I want everyone inside to bow down to the one and only King, to the one and only God. And I will have unity, and I will have power, no matter how many more names I will sign straight to the gallows, and how much French money I would force-feed into foreign mouths until they cough up nothing but praise, nothing, _no one will stop me!_ ”

 

As I sat there completely still, his voice went from quiet to proud and from proud to furious. He still didn’t face me, but the tension in his tall, terrifying silhouette could burn the whole palace down. The way his hand clamped the curtain as it could squeeze one’s throat was enough to silence a battalion. Astounded, I didn’t dare a single move, for I don’t think I knew if this state he was in couldn’t be only appeased by blood.

 

But when he spoke again, he was crumbling down fast, and I wondered for how long exactly he had been trapped in this giant wheel of torment, spinning himself back and forth from despair to frenzy.

 

Years. Oh, God, years. How exhausting it must have been.

 

This is what ideas larger than a continent do to a single man’s mind.

 

 

-“ You see, Treville”, he breathed softly. “Enemies crawl everywhere. From Germany to the King’s kitchens. From Spain to his own bedroom. With daggers or with lies, with cannons or short letters, with a shout or a whisper, and there are days where I don’t think I can find a handful of men I could trust to protect this country.”

 

This was my turn to stand, of course, my hand upon my sword, my boots clacking, my chin held up, brave and absurd, as the soldier I’ve always been.

 

-“Give me a thousand men and horses and I’ll take every city you could name. I would lay down my life and those of my men for France; however you decide to carve it.”

 

With that, he slowly turned to me, with one of those tiny smiles again, and I looked at the floor, blushed, ardent, and mildly embarrassed.

 

He slid back to me in a whisper of red snakes and gently spoke, a bit too close, just a bit.

 

-“Of course, Captain. Your loyalty has never been doubted in these walls. By the way…”

 

He spun around and walked to a high shelf, producing a small key out of his robes like a trickster could, and opened a discrete drawer. He pulled out a massive leather bag that clinked in a unique fashion, oh Lord, how could I have forgotten.

 

-“Four hundred livres for your guns, Captain. As promised.”

 

He made the leather bang against the table next to me, and it felt like a blow in the stomach. I tried to remember my anger, was it so long ago? I wanted to shout at him, I wanted to fight, I wanted to slap his sneer out of his mouth and...

 

-“No” I blurted out.

 

-“No?”

 

By pure instinct it seemed, he retreated to a very dignified pose, and I remember appreciating the perfection of it. Poised, thin-lipped, hands joined in a very clerical stance, only a worried line between his eyes as clue of his surprise. Years of practice.

 

-“ I cannot accept.” I mumbled.

 

 

So much for spitting my mind at his face. Brilliant.

He had a small, uneasy laugh, and strode around the table in what seemed to be useless theatrics. But I knew by then, I knew. He danced when he had some trembling to hide.

 

-“Nonsense, Treville, you have no idea how much work I had to put into this! I had to prepare the King from the very brink of dawn to get him in the perfect mood before supper when I made my move. Do you know how boring stag-hunting is when your mind is actually above the one of a wild boar?”

 

I couldn’t hide a smile at the thought. I had been invited to a few hunts myself, and had been bored to tears every time. When you have lived through the nights of war, the deadly eves of siege, the duels at dawn and the horse pursuits, you fail to see the excitement in the gathering of fifteen horsemen in armor to guide and push one deer in front of the King and clap in wonder as, after five shots, he kills him from twenty yards.

 

Richelieu had completed his circle around the table and was facing me again, a joyful façade perfectly plastered upon his face, but his joined hand very anxious to know of my motivations.

 

-“Precisely, your Eminence” I said, and he flinched at the word, why would he? “I am but a humble soldier. Nothing I have, and nothing I know could possibly pay you back for this work you did for my sake.”

 

When did I learn to talk in circles?

Where did I loose my will to shout and fight, was it so long ago?

He stared at me for a while, then, and I could literally sense the terrifying machine of his mind working, twisting, turning, adding. Suddenly, his face saddened, and his eyes dimmed into lines of exhaustion again.

 

-“ Of course. You think I only did this favor to you in order to squeeze something else out of your flesh and bones. Of course. How could you think any other way.”

 

 

He slid back to the window. He bitterly considered his glass of Cognac, but didn’t take it.

His robes hissed, whispering tales of a thousand secrets, none of them ever made for God’s ears.

 

-“If I wanted you to owe me, I’d put my own money on the table, not the King’s.” he breathed to the night outside. “Take the gold and have your guns made, Treville. No plot, no scheme. No price. I just thought you deserved it. And so did the King after all, after I made him sit down and listen.”

 

My eyes fixed upon the bag, I felt the battle raging in my guts, enough to burn, enough to suffocate. The man had proven a thousand times to be a master of lies. Hundreds had fallen into his traps, for their secrets or for their lives. He would gladly send me to the rope if it fitted his purposes. Betrayal was the very fabric of his clothes. I, on the other hand, was an old fox, carved in rugged leather by blades and gunpowder. Who was I to even think I could outsmart him? If I was meant to fall, I would fall. If I’d fall for sure, well, let it all be for something.

 

I grabbed the leather and hid it in my coat.

 

I couldn’t bear to look at him. If he truly didn’t mean any arm, he surely thought the worst of me by then, and the idea bled me dry. If he did set a trap for me, well, the bag was in my coat, and I was a complete fool to him in any way. I wish I could fight, but swords had no meaning in these walls. I’d fight, I thought, I’d fight if thing turn bad.

 

This I’m good at.

 

Well, there was nothing valuable there that I was good at.

 

Slowly walking back to the door, I had to say something, anything, and I couldn’t pick a single phrase in the ocean of words storming into my head. I think I just plunged my hand into the water, pulled out a few, and spat them out.

 

-“ I am sorry. My gratitude to the King. To you. Well, if you…”

 

This was a nightmare. Richelieu didn’t move, stiff and silent, looking so frail, so pale. His eyes squeezed shut; one of his slender hands massaging his temple in slow circles.

 

 

What if…?

 

Oh, Lord, how could I know. It was so late, so late already.

Whatever had happened there this night, I had done enough.

 

 

My hand on the door handle and my heart in my shoes, I was ready to look at him in mistrust and mild shame for the rest of his reign. I was ready for torture, ready for everything.

 

Except him.

 

Looking over his shoulder, a kind smile upon his thin white lips, speaking just above a whisper:

 

-“Maybe I will ask something in return, after all”

 

 

I froze in between doors, time suspended, words out of reach. Sea storm in my head.

 

-“Will you come back on the same day, next week? To show me the first gun.”

 

And then, softer, as if I need some more persuasion:

 

-“I’ll have some supper prepared.”

 

 

I remember smiling a bit, because long before my first calculated word of reply, my guts had already jumped at the thought of it. Why it all happened, how could I know.

 

How could I know.

 

 

 

-“I’d be delighted, Cardinal.”

 

He silently gestured a blessing, with a look that didn’t even try to fool me.

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

I remember spending a week in conflicted feelings. Little sleep, a lot of running.

 

 

From the garrison to the gunsmith, The old master Carron. The first gun he placed in my hands almost had me growling in joy. A work of genius, delicately chiseled to the Royal arms of the Musketeers, and – I insisted upon it- to the Holy Cross.

He led me into his yard for target practice, and though gunfight had never been my art, the weapon was so light, so reliable I almost shot five bullets in the same square inch of wood.

 

From the gunsmith back to the garrison, for more training, more headaches, and the authority I had to find to tame thirty men boiling with pride and recklessness. For some, reason shouted at their faces sufficed. For others, I needed to draw my sword and have them bleeding into the dust. For a few, I had to punch their jaws and lock them up for one night.

 

Do they know, as years pass by, how being their Captain draws more and more strength out of my very bones? I think not, and it is for the best. It means I’m still good enough.

 

I’m still _good enough._

 

 

From the garrison to my desk, for paperwork and botched prayers, for bread and cheese, for silence and this cheap Bordeaux.

 

From my desk to my cot, for peace that wouldn’t come, for those sleepless hours of mine. Some of them lost in the planning of battles that may never be fought, some of them spent worrying for my men outside, at the borders for uneasy missions, at the tavern for easy girls.

A few of them, I can’t deny, pulling me back to him.

Had I been a fool, falling for a trap, my name already written on the death lists he signed?

I had seen him destroy enemies and traitors, men and women alike, without a flinch or a cry. I had seen him have the stakes of innocent souls lit with a wave of his hand, just because the State required it. I have seen him write two-lined letters, sending princes to exile, sending duchesses to jail, and I have dreamed, some nights, that his robes were indeed red as the blood they’re soaked into.

 

And I have dreamed, some nights, of his thin hands strangling unnamed throats, his thin lips hissing threats, spitting words of prayers with rage and disdain, leaving at his feet piles of bloodless corpses.

 

But I have dreamed, some nights.

 

 

 

I have dreamed.

 

His fingers around the glass, his sad eyes, his worried stance. The agony crushing his voice as he chanted furious speeches. The pain slowing his steps as he walked towards me.

Had I been a fool all along, blinded by his reputation, his past, and the stench of blood sticking at his boots?

 

 

Oh, Lord, how could I know.

 

I remember running a lot to avoid thinking too much.

 

 

 

 

 

But I remember being back right on time to bring him the first gun.

 

 

He welcomed me with a smile I hadn’t seen in court yet. Wider, brighter. Made him look a bit younger. I wondered why, but the habit of running in circles to stop the thinking had settled in my mind already. So I danced around him, showing him my pride and joy, the first of thirty pistols forged according to my own drawings, and talking battles, sieges, ambushes, pursuits.

He listened, very Cardinal at first, and then, slowly, as pushed by my own fever, he started following my moves, whispering approvals, gasping his surprise. As I danced some more in the tales of all fights to come, he suddenly took the pistol, loaded it in five perfects moves and aimed right at a delicate, flowery vase upon his mantelpiece.

 

The vase shattered with a bang, my cry of warning drowned it the noise like it didn’t even exist.

 

And then, he laughed. Oh Lord, how he _laughed._

 

I checked the door with anguish, but he told me no one would come, he had sent everyone away.

I wondered why, but, you see, running in circles.

 

I could only watch him laugh.

 

When I asked how a Cardinal could handle a pistol so well, he waved his hands again, and I decided I liked that sight very much.

 

 

-“I was destined for a military career. My older brother was to inherit the diocese of Luçon, as per tradition in my family. I have been forced to take his place when he decided he should take a monk’s cloth because God told him so. **Hah!** ”

 

I understood why I had never seen a religious man so hungry for war. This explained a lot, from the gait of his steps to those days the King himself bowed down to his fury. This explained why, though I fought the urge to punch his face a thousand times, I more than often had to admit his advice was a sound one.

 

I enjoyed this supper more than I'll ever care to say.

 

I talked very little after that, and I was fine with it. He was many things, but boring wasn't one of them. As he spoke of his plans for pushing further the borders at South, he unfolded a huge map of France on the table, laughing at the wine and food overturned, pointing cities, rivers, roads.

He used my new pistol to hold the map down, noticed the Holy Cross and suddenly fell silent.

 

He didn’t change the subject, he didn’t talk about it, he just said nothing for a while, and when he turned back to the map, his voice was softer again, just like last time, just like the time before.

 

 

Sliding around the map in a furious whirl of blood red robes, I definitely think one of his hands grazed my shoulder. I wondered why.

 

But he laughed again, and it didn’t matter for long.

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

I remember I came back.

 

 

The next week, and the week after. To show him another gun, to compare the news from Spain my men had brought to the ones his spies wrote him. To march to his face and shout my outrage for whatever cruelty he committed during the day. To argue, to plead. To gamble, to inquire.

 

For a thousand reasons I came back, as a thousand ships sail to the same destination.

 

I came back, that's all.

 

 

 

 

There were walks in the garden that stretched a little longer than bumping into each other in hurried whispers. I remember one time when I actually stood next to him for half an hour, looking at the sun setting down behind the trees, and said practically nothing, and I was fine with it.

 

There were evenings, at the King's table, when I didn't even consider locking myself into lethargy again. I remember one time when I actually laughed at one of his remarks, and Louis cheered, saying he was glad to see us more cordial to each other, and I was fine with it.

 

There were a few times I found myself hiding in darkness and corridors, exchanging notes and clues with him. Fighting with all strength I had the burning shame of liking the way he whispered in my ear far too much.

 

There were a few times he actually asked me for advice in swordsmanship, allowing me to guide his hand for that wicked backhand I know. He coughed and retreated to his fake clerical stance after a while, and I wondered why.

 

 

I attended his mass twice.

 

 

One night, I shook his hand.

 

 

 

 

 

That's all.  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	2. The cries of La Rochelle

 

 

 

 

**PART ONE  -  THE SEAWALL.**

 

 

**Why, then, why do I remember all of that, in endless loops and shattered bits, tonight?**

 

 

 

 

Standing in the dark, fifteen Musketeers and thirty soldiers behind me, looking up at the high ramparts of La Rochelle.

 

 

-”This isn't a battle for men like you” he told me six months ago. “It's a show of force, it's a declaration. It is a siege, the starving of a city, to the last child. You'll hate it. Every day of it. The only real fight would be on the sea. The Royal army will only be sitting around the fortifications with loaded guns and wide cannons. Your skills are much more needed here.”

 

I shouted at him. I don't know what exactly, but I shouted like a madman. He tried and tried to dissuade me, and the more he tried, the more I shouted. This was a war, I said, France was involved, and I would be there to serve. I heard nothing else.

 

He danced and turned around the table, his robes hissing a crazed song, his hands trembling, perhaps, a bit more than the usual. His eyes, wide and fierce, red-rimmed, went from fury to despair in rapid turns. In his resolve to have me stay in Paris he spat insults, he breathed threats.

 

I heard none of them.

 

 

La Rochelle was his obsession. The city was brimming with protestants, fed and enriched by the British, wealthy and proud behind thick walls, claiming privileges the King of France didn't give. Richelieu wanted it burned to the ground. He pushed himself to the best of his art to persuade the King to march to war. But, disheartened by two previous sieges ending in bittersweet victories, Louis didn't want to risk further misfortune.

 

-”Leave it to me, then, your Majesty”, he pleaded.

 

Insane, stubborn, fearless fool.

 

 

The King let him go.

 

 

And God, he went. His plans were long prepared, in hundreds of books, maps, and lists. A life's work, like a perfect clock you just have to kickstart. He carved his war on paperwork just like everything he's ever done : effective, flawless.  
  
Cruel.

 

 

-”You know nothing about sieges”, he told me five months ago. “you may be remarkable in a honest fight, with a man as strong as you are facing you with the same weapon. This will be different. What good are you with a ballista? What good are you against high walls?”

 

I banged my fist on the table, spilt good wine upon his maps, broke some glass and ruined the night.

He sighed and collapsed in a chair, locked down in stern silence until I left, boiling in an anger I didn't understand.

 

 

 

-”Don't go” he told me four months ago. “You might get killed, and I won't find any proper replacement among the wild dogs you find amusing to train.”

 

I hissed something foul I may regret now, and I slammed the door behind me.

 

He didn't try to stop me.

He gathered thousands of men, a fortune I didn't even imagine one man could have, and he marched to La Rochelle. Oh, God, he marched.

 

 

We didn't talk since.

 

 

 

 

The next time I saw him, we were both in La Rochelle, and I was given the tour of the siege forces by La Villette.

Next time I saw him, he was there, standing oh his seawall.

 

Oh God, he _stood_.

 

 

He had ordered forty old ships to be sunken in the port, filled with rocks and debris. I knew, I had seen his plans. Upon the ships he built two miles of seawall, and upon the seawall he put sixty cannons he had forged for himself. He had them turned towards England, he had them loaded and ready.

 

And God, he stood there.

 

 

Tall and terrible, thin and ferocious. Inflexible and proud, his robes abandoned for the armor of Royal knights, shining bright in the lights of summertime. Facing the sea, his chin held up, his stance terrifying. A blood red cape floating to the furious wind of the ocean.

 

La Villette was talking about the beams under our feet, century-old oaks from Perigny I think, but I paid no attention. I walked to him, waiting to be noticed, expecting the worst, preparing a face.

 

 

When he turned his head to me, my breath got caught in my throat and I had to slow down. The wind, perhaps.

 

The wind, surely.

 

His fierce light eyes twisted my guts in tight knots. I thought I suffocated, but I did not look down, not one moment, and this is one victory I'll keep for remembrance. I stopped next to him, gave a slight nod, my stare defiant, my knees already begging.

 

-” _Treville_ ” he growled.

 

 

-”Your Eminence” I breathed.

 

He flinched at the word, why would he?

 

 

A few yards away his general staff called him in reverence for some news of the British float, but he didn't spin around immediately. Right before he did, his eyes screamed something. Something meant for me, a plea, a hope, a thousand words, a heavy silence. Something even he couldn't say or write, something deep, something old.

 

Like agony.

 

 

I was pushed away by La Villette, and assigned my battalion. The men were skilled, most of them quite old. They were joined by my Musketeers the next day, each one of them carrying one of the new pistols. The Holy Crosses stared at me in the eyes, but I didn't look down.

 

 

 

 

 

Tonight, it is our turn to guard the southern door. Richelieu ordered it to be kept closed at all costs, as it is the weakest spot of the ramparts. The best men are assigned here, to prevent the British to force a way in, and to stop the people inside to try and break out.

 

The end of a scorching hot August soon will come, and La Rochelle is dying. More than ten months of the most dreadful, efficient siege one single man could design has decimated the city. We know, we hear the cries at night, carried by the ocean wind through the high walls and heavy doors. Women, mostly. Children, less and less.

 

 

-”You'll hate every day of it” he told me, and Lord, he always delivers.

 

We have been there for three months and a half now, and every single day of it has been an open wound to my heart. This is not war. This is not fair fight. This is the forceful, massive, resolved strangling of thirty thousand men, women and children.

 

This is a nightmare.

 

 

The siege is quiet. There are no battles. A few hundred french protestants from southern countryside, with barely a horse and an old musket, pushing in from time to time, only to be sent back with a few cannons. I didn't even see their faces, I didn't even draw my sword. God, I can't sleep.

 

_I can't sleep._

 

 

I know he's still there, but his lodgings are near the seawall. We'd need a reason to meet, and we have none. He commands, I have my orders.

 

How is he? Does he hear the cries also? Does he sleep at night? Does he know?

 

Does he?

 

Fool that I am, of course he does, he knows everything. He's made of steel and stone, that's all. I've seen him watch people burn on the stakes, his eyes unwavering as the stench of boiling skin had the strongest men grow pale. Looking at the dying right in the eyes until their very last cry, their very last curse. I've seen him walk on the bare hands of women kneeling for their lives. I've seen...

 

The Red Man.

 

 

For the idea he has of France, he'd do anything. Everything.

He'd do more than the King would. He'd go further, he'd push higher.

 

He would.

 

 

He does.

 

 

God I can't sleep.

 

 

Only Aramis joined me at the siege. I left the others at the Palace. I couldn't leave Paris and the King in unskilled hands. He's right behind me, and I know that sound. His grinds his teeth. He hears the cries too.

 

-” Was there any other way ? ” he whispers at some point, as the night stretches further into that unbearable, quiet horror.

 

I look up at the giant door. The cries sound weaker. We hear prayers from time to time, roughly the same as ours. What seemed to be a little girl sang something a few hours ago, and we hoped we'd hear more. But we didn't.

 

-”The British would have settled in the City, threatened the King from inside his borders. France had to make a stand. Send a message of determination. This kind of message has to be absolute. Inspire fear. To the British but also to the Germans. This will cause atrocious harm to thousands here, but it may protect millions from actual, bloodstained, long-lasting war.”

 

His words, not mine, line by line laid down as he did for me. Six, five, and four months ago.

 

I hope Aramis believes them as much as I did.

 

 

He doesn't say anything more than a sad huffing sound, so I suppose he does.

 

 

_Boom._

 

 

God, this came from the port. Cannons.

All men shout together.

 

 

 

-”No one moves!” I yell, and my men stand fast. The soldiers behind reluctantly do the same.

 

I alone run downhill to get a better view of the sea. I pull out my spyglass and pray for the moon to shine bright.

 

 

Oh, Lord, have mercy.

 

 

By their lights and their outlines, twenty British ships, most of them positively huge, are approaching the port in a tight line. The first cannon must have been theirs, for I see men running along the seawall to load ours. Torches are lit as stars appear at nightfall. Battalions gather, orders are shouted, horses whinny in anguish.

 

I search the seawall for the bright red cape, but the moon doesn't care. All I see are black silhouettes running in tight packs.

 

 

The first of our cannons shoots, and a sinister bang is heard upon the sea. Gunfight begins, too soon, too soon. I wish I could tell him, put those men on the higher walls, for God's sake, where are you? A British cannonball lands harshly on the far left of the seawall, I hear beams cracking and I curse the night skyline.

 

I hear the other officers split their battalions in half and send reinforcements to the seashore. What should I do? Lord, if I was a man of La Rochelle with a bit of sense, I'd organize a sortie at the South door with every force I can gather right now. The diversion is perfect.

 

 

 

 

On the other hand...

 

I watch the seawall again. I try not to look for him.

 

 

The gunmen are moving to the high walls, on firm ground. Good. Their aim will be better.

But the British cannons break the beams at every shot. Fires begin to look threatening at the left end, where are you, foolish, reckless priest?

 

 

What should I do?

 

 

 

 

 

I slowly walk backwards up. Come on, think. There are five thousand men on the seashore. There are ten fast ships on our side. He knows what to do, he planned it all, I've seen the maps.

 

He knows, he always does.

 

_-”Leave it to me”, he said._

 

 

 

The door.

 

 

 

I rush up the hill. The men are already scattered, moving to the sea in uneasy steps.

 

 

-”Hold your positions!” I howl. “Load your guns!”

 

-”Captain!” Aramis shouts, “Let me go to the port, we must defend our...”

 

-”Watch the door ! If there is still a breathing man inside who knows anything about war, he'll try to break out right now!”

 

 

I see in his eyes the split second when he doubts me. It doesn't last.

Well, it must mean I'm still good enough.

 

He draws his pistol and follows me to the door, and the rest of my men follow without a word. After a short wave of chaos and whispers, the soldiers do the same.

 

Good enough.

 

_Good enough._

 

 

How to place them? The soldiers are less skilled with guns. They're old swordsmen. They should be pushed forward. My men won't like it, they'll think the soldiers get the first shot. No matter, I will...

 

  
  
_**Boom!** _

 

 

The South door explodes, and _fire_ .

 

 

 

Fire swallows everything.

 

 

 

 

I'm on the ground, and my back hurts. I scream for my men. Fire burns the grass and the trees, some Musketeers were bloody close. Step back, fire your guns, let the soldiers run forward !

Someone grabs my arm and lifts me up; it's a soldier, what's his name again? Vincent.

 

I shout my orders again, he nods, he runs.

 

Fifty men, maybe more, with more weapons that I could think of, are slashing their way through mine. Haggard, desperate men, their limbs scrawny and hard, their eyes like empty skies. It's a human mess vomited by the broken door. An horrible, tragic mess. I bark some more orders, and the soldiers gather in a tight pack, pushing back with swords and daggers. I recognize the old ways of the war, taught at the military schools. Plain, absolute fight. They don't think. They've been told not to for long enough. The old warriors cut through starved flesh like animals.

 

 

The Musketeers are different. They are holding back their aim, I see that. I know, those are civilians pushing out of their own walls, starving men, fathers and husbands, defending their homes, avenging their families. I know I know, I hate every second of it, if only you knew. He told me so, he told me so.

 

 

Oh, Armand, what have you done?

 

My men look around for me. They falter. They hesitate.

The men of La Rochelle don't.

 

Gabeau, and Rossac get pierced by two swords and a bloody spear in the same second. I scream their names, I run. Kill or be killed, I yell. Don't look into their eyes, I think.

 

 

I raise my sword, pick the largest man, oh, how huge he must have been, before hunger, before death. I jump and slice his throat with a scream that will be taken for fury. It's not.

 

 

It is disgust. It is repugnance.

 

It is duty.

 

 

The Musketeers as one man let out the same cry, and swords dance into the night. Blood is splattered upon their capes, their faces. Another man points a pistol at my head. Duck, spin, slash at the knees, hit as he falls. Oh God, was he even twenty? Another comes running, bare-handed and frantic, howling curses at our very souls. On his stomach already a red rose grows. I punch him, and he's done. I barely saw his face.

 

Jacquet and Puissenier are on the ground. God, four of them already. Twice as much soldiers. Oh, lord, what have I done?

 

Armand, what have we done?

 

I search around, counting my men, shouting their names. Aramis is almost into the city, his sword quick and deft, meant to wound, but resolute, oh, blasted fool, have I taught you nothing?

The others are moving around to gather the men of La Rochelle into a tight cluster, so the swordsmen can keep up. Good. They're already loosing time and advantage trying to injure and not to kill, they need teamwork.

 

I run into the city behind Aramis. Going around the fight; I notice two battalions running towards us. The explosion has been heard by Villette's men.

 

God, it'll soon be over.

 

What is happening at the port? I have to go to the seawall. How many ships are left? Does Armand...

 

First I must get Aramis out of there, there may be more armed men inside, I have to...

 

 

**Aaah! -**

 

 

Pain.

 

 

Oh, God, pain.

 

 

I stumble. It's in my guts. No. Higher. I don't know. I can't breathe. The world is spinning. Aramis. Do I see his face? I search myself blindly with my free hand. Pain. I can't breathe, oh, Lord, is this how I die?

 

 

My hand finds a rough, short something sticking out of my chest.

It's an arrow. God, who still fights with  _arrows_ ? 

 

I can't breathe. I can't see the fires anymore. I can't see anything.

The grass against my cheek. Wet with blood, wet with blood...

 

 

The names of my men. I can't shout them. I can't breathe. I can't...

 

 

 

 

Is this how I end ?

 

 

_Armand?_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_***_

 

_ **PART TWO  -  THE LULLABY  
** _

 

 

 

 

Someone is whistling, far away, to the left.

It's this old counting rhyme, almost a lullaby.

Something metallic clangs. Voices, two or three.

 

Ah, the garrison is quiet today. Good.

 

 

 

Because somehow I feel tired, so tired. I think I'll be late for training.

They'll begin without me. I'll open my eyes later.

 

 

The bed is rough, but it is warm, and I think I'm trembling, God knows why.

It's fine, it's fine, I'll eat a bit more later.

 

I'm tired, that's all.

 

 

Someone walks close and lifts my arm. Speaks, maybe, I'm sorry, I didn't catch that.

Someone pours liquid on my chest and it burns, and it hurts, and I wish I could scream, but I am so tired now.

 

 

Someone speaks softly,  _Armand_ ? 

Armand, are you there? What are you doing in my office? No, don't go, now that you're here.

Forgive me, I'll just stay in bed if you don't mind.

 

Something's clinking next to me, voices come and go, a horse passes by, slow pace. My dear garrison sounds in order. Sit, Armand, sit. Take some wine, though you'll find it dull I suppose. What are the news from the Palace?

 

 

He doesn't answer. Did I fall asleep again?

 

 

But he takes my hand, that means he isn't mad. Oh, how gorgeous he is, in the yellow morning light, the sun painting silent tributes to the hollows of his cheeks. To the stained glass of his eyes. He whispers, he smiles a bit, sorry, I didn't catch that.

 

It's alright, he is there, the bed is warm. We don't even have an excuse to meet. Maybe this morning, we just ran out of maps, we ran out of notes, of guns, of lies. I loose myself in the details of his coat, that masterpiece of embroidery in red and black. If I could lift my hands, I'd touch this silken braid there. This coat could buy a whole country.

 

So could he.

 

His other hand grazes my cheek, and I read in his intense, frozen eyes a thousand books, a thousand maps. Oh Lord, Armand, I wish I could speak, but I am so tired now. How beautiful he, is, how tall and how fierce, how pale in the morning light. His elegant fingers fiddle with my hand, lift it up to his lips, and he kisses my palm, and I think I may die, are you insane, we might be seen.

 

He whispers again, I cannot hear.

 

His voice fades, no, please, wait, I haven't told you.

His face blurs, did I fall asleep again?

 

 

 

Please, Armand.

 

 

_Stay._

 

 

 

 

Something metallic falls, the sound pierces holes into my brain, I scream like hell could scream.

 

I open my eyes, oh, Lord.  
  
  
  
  
La Rochelle.

 

 

-”Please, Captain Treville, remain still. You are injured.”

 

 

It's Guinot, the surgeon. I'm in a huge tent, the infirmary, no doubt. Voices. Five other officers wounded, moaning and calling on cots next to me. Blood. On my own cot, on Guinot's hands.

 

He picks up the steel dish I might have knocked over in my pain, and asks a nurse to have it refilled with hot water.

 

 

-”I must finish cleaning your wound. I pulled out the arrow and closed the skin. Your lung was pierced. You are very lucky, a strap buckle from your sheath diverted it from your heart. Now, for God's sake, man, rest.”

 

 

La Rochelle. The attack. The British float. The south door, Lord, my men...

 

 

-”Aramis! Where is Aramis? The Musketeers, I must...

 

 

-”Quiet !”

 

I cough up a thick cluster of black mucus, and my chest is on fire. Tears slide down my cheeks, shame and anger come rushing back to me, good day, old friends.

 

-”The Musketeers regiment from Paris”, I wheeze so weakly he has to lean towards me “What of it?”

 

 

He sighs, turns around and walks to the opening of the tent. He lifts it, shouts something, gets a short muffled reply, shrugs and strides back to me.

 

-”Four dead. One burned leg I had to cut off yesterday night. The rest is fine.”

 

 

Four. Oh Lord, four. I remember. Gabeau and Rossac. Jacquet and Puissenier. Brave, all of them. Shame and anger, good day, missed us? He told me so, he told me so.

 

God,  _Armand_ .

 

 

-”How is the C...?”

 

I bite my tongue. Don't do anything odd, you fool. Wait.

 

 

Heavens, please, let him be alive.  
Let him come, let him take my hand.

 

 

-”How is the siege? Is he holding fast?” I ask instead.

 

 

 

Guinot gets his water dish back, and that brightens his mood. He pours a small amount into a large mug to clean his instruments, and uses the rest to wash my chest with a damp cloth, talking sternly, but with a somehow exalted tone.

 

-”The British float sailed back from where it came from before sunrise. Not one of those goddamned traitors set one foot on french land. This Cardinal's seawall is the work of a genius. It stood five hours of cannoning. It burned everywhere, but didn't break. Not once. Our cannons destroyed twelve ships out of seventeen. We lost five hundred men at sea and on land. It's a lot when you think of it, but we're twenty thousand folks here. Could be worse, hey.”

 

 

It's five hundred too much, I'd say, if I could speak, but my chest burns, and I'm so tired, now.

 

I'll be late for many trainings.

 

 

I want to ask again, but if Armand was dead or wounded, I suppose Guinot would have told me at this point. What about the men of La Rochelle? I try and ask for more with a look, and God must be with me, for he understands, and speaks again.

 

 

 

-” As for the sortie at the South door in the city, I heard that when La Villette came with reinforcements your men had already dealt with most of the insurgents. The Royal battalions built a barricade to replace the broken door in four hours. No resistance, they said. What they saw was empty streets, horse bones, naked walls. They say it must have been the last men who could hold a weapon in La Rochelle. It's over, Captain. I heard La Villette say they're talking surrender as we speak. ”

 

 

 

I praise God in a hiss, and it makes me cough another splatter of blood on Guinot's coat. Oh, how it hurts. How tired I am. I would apologize, but the morning light is getting darker. He shouts, tells me to shut up and rest, calls a nurse for bandages, and I wonder if this was indeed a quiet day at my garrison, up there in Paris.

 

If there is still some of that cheap Bordeaux, somewhere.

 

 

It's getting dark.

Maybe I'll sleep.

Someone is whistling, far away, to the left.

 

 

Almost.

 

 

Almost a lullaby.

 

 

 

 

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

**PART THREE -  OLD BLOOD.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Old blood.

 

 

That's what the taste of death must be. Old blood, dried spit, dust and hunger.

Oh, God if I don't wash it down, I'll throw up my guts.

 

 

I open my eyes to search for water. There's some on that table next to me. Looks clear enough. Can't be worse than death. The tent is lit by thin lanterns hanging from the roof. How longs have I slept?

 

Is it a day? Could be a week. I'll be late; I know, I know.

 

 

 

I carefully lift up my hand to the bottle of water. I scream in agony, not even halfway. My hand drops, hits the table, sending a flash of fire through my shoulder, my chest. Oh mercy on me. What use will I be? My men...

 

All those trainings.

 

 

I close my eyes on bitter tears, and swallow some more death.

 

 

 

Someone speaks outside the tent, something anguished and reverent.

Another voice, a short dismissal,  _Armand_ . 

 

 

Armand is alive.

 

 

Before I even think, I try and sit up, scream again, lay back down in a pathetic mess. Armand, Armand, my heart thumps, and I can't breathe, and I don't care.

 

-”Your Eminence, the infirmary is unfit for...”

 

-”Those men serve France just as well as I do. Wait outside.”

 

I squint my eyes with a low moan, as the opening of the tent is pushed in.

He's there. He's alive. He's magnificent.

 

Sit, Armand sit. Have some wine. What are the news?

 

 

 

He finds me and his eyes soften. He walks closer and is eyes worry. He almost runs when he approaches and sits on my cot next to me. The feeling of the straw mattress bending lightly with his weight absolves all pain, the touch of his fingers around my hand erases the taste of death.

 

-”Captain”, he whispers, and I flinch at the word, why would I?

 

 

I don't answer quickly enough, his brow frowns in wary lines, he tilts his head and breathes, distressed.

 

-”Jean?”

 

That's why.

 

 

I squeeze my eyes shut, to stop the nausea, to get a grip on whatever's left of me. Tears drip again, and it's the taste of death, nothing more. It's dust and hunger.

I swear it's not my name in that bloody voice of his.

 

I open my eyelids to check him for injuries, but the shrewd devil doesn't even look dirty. He's wearing his robes again, but it's not  _that_ cloak, it's something black and heavy, in waxed wool, slightly wet on the shoulders, well, must be raining outside. 

 

-”I hope you're happy” I groan.

 

-”Of course I am, Jean, you're al...

 

-” Five hundred soldiers dead! “ I cough, and he clasps my hand as if it could keep me from fainting. “And how much more civilians in La Rochelle?”

 

He sighs, lowers his perfect eyelashes; and his free hand passes briefly upon his temple. I've seen that before. So far, so long ago. He doesn't let go of my fingers. I know he won't.

 

-”Jean, I beg of you” he pleads. “I told you there wasn't any other way. In regular war, the British would have outnumbered us. We had to encircle the city, stop the British forces from joining La Rochelle. Isolate it.”

 

He pauses. He said those words too many times, even for his tastes, I see that. They disgust him now, as true as they are. He's tired too, tough he looks like he'll be posing for a portrait in less than one hour. I know, now, the insane strength that being him requires sometimes.

 

He seems to drift off into thought for a while, his eyes fixed upon some detail of my bandages.

 

 

-”I didn't expect the people of La Rochelle to be so... resolute.” he breathes in a crushed voice.

 

And that sentence, a flaw in his perfect plan, whispered to me as in holy confession, lifts a dreadful veil upon the consequences of the tiniest of this man's mistakes. His eyes are blurred. The headaches are threatening again, oh,  _Armand_ . 

 

-”I hated every day of it...” I hiss.

 

-”I told you so.”

 

-”...but it was what needed to be done.”

 

His eyes dart up to mine, his face brightening like a summer sky after a storm.

He checks the other cots in a sweeping stare. They're all sleeping.

 

Then.

He does it, then.

 

 

Lift my fingers to his mouth, he does it. He kisses the back of my hand twice, and I literally feel my soul being nailed upon his lips forevermore. I curse him, I insult him, I yell at him, yet I don't utter one sound. What's the point of fighting? He smiles at me, contoured by lantern lights, and I'm done for.

 

 

I'm done.

 

 

I squeeze his hand back, as much as I think I can.

 

 

-”Could you get me some water?” I rasp.

 

-”Of course!”

 

 

And as reward for my duty well performed, I may watch his Eminence the Cardinal du Plessis Richelieu stand up, choose a glass, inspect it,  _wipe it with the side of his robes_ , and reverently pour clear water in it. He holds it up to my mouth, and actually has me drink it whole, taking his time, not saying a word as I cough and spit half of it, mixed with old blood, on his right sleeve. 

 

Lord, I don't want anything more.

 

 

 

-” I am sending you back to Paris as soon as Guinot says you are fit for the journey” he gently says as he puts the glass back on the table. “My personal carriage will take you straight to the garrison where you'll be followed by the Court physician, Antonelli.”

 

-”And you? ”, I let out.

 

-”I'll follow, only a few days behind. I'll be required immediately at the Palace to report to the King, but I'll let you know I'm in Paris. You know your way in, I suppose.”

 

 

He hinted the last sentence with a sly chuckle, and I feel like punching him again. 'I may have bigger things to do', I wish I could scream, but my chest hurts, oh Lord, this man is a torture.

 

 

But he sits back and holds my hand.

But he sits back, and I'm only smiling.

 

 

I'd fight, I thought, if things turn bad. I'd fight.

Fool, stupid fool that I am. What's the point of fighting?

 

He quietly arranges my bandage, assessing its quality, by the look of it. His inspecting hand dances and turns, around my arms and face, around the mattress, the table, and I know him, now. I know.

 

I raise my own hand to stop his. Of course, he's trembling. He only dances when he has some trembling to hide. He coughs, bloody God is he blushing? He mutters something about his general staff or my sleep, and stands up, straightening his robes. Clerical pose, dignified mask, oh, good, you're very quick. But I know you now.

 

I know.

 

 

He retreats towards the opening of the tent, oh, don't think I'll make things that easy.

 

 

-”Armand”, I breathe.

 

 

And his steps falter. He very slowly looks at me over his shoulder, and it's his turn to wish he could scream. It's his turn to be tortured. My eyes catch his, and I do not look down, not once. I challenge. He promises. I defy, he begs. None of us utter a sound.

 

In a shivering sigh, he joins his trembling hands into that perfect Cardinal stance, and leaves.

 

 

Left to my own silence, I lose myself in lantern light. I bless the living and count the dead, engrave their faces in the great cemetery my memories have become. Before sleep, before dark, I whistle something sweet, as I can't remember a single prayer anyway. Something that little girl behind the high walls could have sung. Oh, God, I hope she'll sing some more. I hope she'll sing forever.

 

I whistle something sweet.

Something nice, for La Rochelle.

 

 

Almost.

 

Almost a lullaby.

 

 


	3. Silver and Gold

 

 

  
  
  
** PART ONE - SEVENTEEN STEPS **   
  


 

 

I watch the last training session end in curses and tears, at least for the poor lad Porthos has decided to teach some basics tonight. The aspirant is panting like a dying dog, and though his energy and willpower deserve some respect, he won't be a match to my best men until a year or two.

 

Porthos, though he seems to have a lot of fun, keeps on darting quick glances at me while fighting, searching for some sign, or some word, I have no idea. I shrug, and yell some more guidance to the lad :

 

-”Keep your legs moving, boy! Don't linger!”

 

 

He seems to take my advice as support, and dances around Porthos. Hah. I was right to hire him. He doesn't know crap, but he's strong and determined. We'll make something good of him. Ferrière, he's called Henri Ferrière.

 

-”Higher, that left, for God's sake!”

 

I move to grab the boy's wrist and show him how it's done, but Aramis jumps out of nowhere and gently stops me with both hands on my arms, where the hell were you?

 

-”You mustn't wear yourself out, Captain”, he tries with a repentant smile. “Antonelli said you still need to be patient for a few more weeks.”

 

 

I open my mouth to spit something proud and threatening, I suppose, but a nasty cough rips me of my dignity with a low wheezing sound. Lord, it feels like a dagger twisting in, deeper, deeper, every time. Though I'm quite sure his hands are still on my arms, at the end of it I almost have one knee on the ground, dizzy and panting.

When my vision clears from a filthy veil of tears and agony, I turn to the exercise yard, and of course, all fighting has ceased. They're all looking at me with the same bloody concern, the same I've read on their faces since I stepped down right here from the Cardinal's carriage three weeks ago.

 

I'm sick of it. Sick of waiting, limping around the yard, useless if not for my advice, missing training after training, mission after mission. I'm getting slowly mad, nursed and followed by Aramis, watched and assessed by Porhtos. I'm loosing my mind, I'm wasting my time, I'm boiling, I'm freezing.

 

 

 

 

 

I still hear the cries of La Rochelle at night.

  
The little girl behind the walls sings in my head forevermore.

 

 

 

 

-”Dismissed” I bark.

 

I free myself from Aramis' hands, I try and give him my most defiant stare. But I stumble far too much as I walk back to the stairs of my office, I won't fool anyone. Not even Henri Ferrière.

Marching on with all the rage I can gather, I brush D'Artagnan's shoulder, and as my eyes meet his through sour tears, I wait for more pity with clenched teeth.

 

-” Do what you must to recover, Captain”, he asks. “ We can't afford to loose you. None of us can.”

 

 

 

That wasn't what I expected.

 

 

I hear muffled grunts of approval behind me and turn towards the garrison. Concern has left, a strange guarded respect has taken its place. In Ferrière's eyes, it's almost reverence.

 

My lungs are on fire, and I feel like my knees are ready to give up on me, but on those rugged, strong faces, I read that after all, I'm still good enough.

 

Good enough.

 

 

One corner of my mouth must have twitched, but that's all I'll give them.

 

-”Drink to my health at Lagarde's Tavern tonight, then”, I declare with a wave of my hand.

 

 

I know they read the smile in my voice. They break ranks in murmurs of joy. That's why I still feel the need to add, low and threatening :

 

-”But be back there dashing clean at seven sharp, or I swear I'll make you wish I died this night.”

 

 

They all straighten their backs, even the best of them, and scatter away in silence.

Good enough.

 

 

Still good enough.

 

 

 

I look up. Seventeen steps to my office. I'll hate every single one of them. But at the end, my cheap Bordeaux, the hearth. I think there's gingerbread left from the mess. Rest and silence. At least no one to hear me if I moan, I suppose.

 

I grit my teeth. One.

 

 

Antonelli says he has high hopes. I may see myself fit for duty before Christmas day he says. Oh I'll be up and running before that, or I'll be lost to madness. The cries of La Rochelle will crawl up my skin, devour my brain, swallow me whole. I need to fight. I fight, when things turn bad. This I'm good at.

If I don't fight, I'll die, and the little girl from La Rochelle shall dance upon my grave.

 

 

Two.

 

La Rochelle.

Armand has sent word twenty days ago to say he was back at the Royal Court.

Asking me to visit, ' at my convenience' of course.  
  


I didn't.

 

 

 

Three.

 

 

Why haven't I?

 

 

Four.

 

 

I didn't because every single day from the moment he left the infirmary to last bloody night, the memory of his hands have pushed me further into insanity.

I didn't because I cannot close my eyes without seeing him smile that cursed smile again, leaning towards me, speaking my name in this voice of his.

 

I didn't because there were those feverish dreams.

 

Five.

 

 

 

Dreams of him coming to me, sliding out of darkness like a ghost, whispering sweet nothings, tilting his head that way. Holding me close, enfolding me in warmth, offering me wine, praising my looks, asking me in a sigh to remove my coat.

 

Six.

 

Dreams of his lips, descending down my neck, gasping promises to the skin there.

His eyes holding on to mine. His hands on the first button of his robes.

 

Seven.

 

The pale, pale skin of his thin shoulders. The ruffle of his robes as they fall in a heap on a floor that isn't mine. How his voice creaks, as it turns from whispers to moans.

 

_Armand._

 

 

 

Eight.

 

_ Fool that I am. _

 

 

 

Nine.

 

There is no Armand. Armand doesn't exist. Du Plessis Richelieu does.

He is the Red Man, the ruler of France. The willpower of this nation. He is at the Royal Palace, surrounded by ministers and ambassadors, watchful guardian to the prestige of the country, his duties intricate, his problems obscure.

 

He lives in a world of poison and daggers. A world of lies and twisted wits.

 

I don't belong there.

 

Not a shred, not a part of me belongs at his side.

My Armand doesn't exist.

 

 

Ten.

 

 

I can bear the guilt of those thoughts, those dreams. I know what I am, and the reason why none of the matches my mother pushed in front of me until she bled Paris dry of every single daughter of nobility that could be found did light any sparkle. My first years in the regiment had a very clear answer for that.

 

I chose to live with that part of me, amiably buried under thick layers of rage, swords and duty.

As you choose to live in a castle with a gaping breach you cannot fix. You just don't walk near there, that's all.

 

After a while, you don't even feel the wind whistling in from the breach anymore.

I can bear the guilt.

 

_Can he?_

 

 

 

Eleven.

 

 

 

 

 

 

He is a cardinal. A bloody roman catholic  _cardinal_ . 

Oh, I'm not that candid. I know he's no saint. 'There's a room nicely prepared for me in Hell', he told me once, 'but my work here isn't done yet'.

Between everything I've seen him do, everything I have yet to see, and all those things I'll never know of, yes, I think I believe him. But this?

 

 

But  _me?_

 

 

The disgrace, the scandal. He won't take risks. He's a clever man, so much more than me.

 

 

 

Twelve.

 

 

He may be fond of me. He may have been a bit emotional, seeing me covered in blood on a battlefield he carefully organized. He may like the blunt honesty that is the best I can do, maybe he finds it refreshening.

 

But I don't belong in the Palace of lies. I don't belong among snakes and daggers.

He must know that too. He knows everything.

 

 

I didn't go because I simply choose to wait, as I did all my bloody life, to get used to the wind through the breach again. To forget about it, to just never walk near it anymore. I'll wait, that's all. Bury it under broken swords and the mud of battlefields.

 

Even if it blows.

 

Even if it  _howls_ , now. 

 

 

Thirteen.

 

 

I didn't go because if I see him again, now that I am weak, now that I am tired, trapped between this smile and the shadow of his hands, I …

 

Fourteen.  
  


_I..._

 

Fifteen.

 

I can't see him now. I'm not ready to hide, not ready to lie.

Heh, everybody can't be as good as you are, Cardinal.

 

 

Sixteen.

 

 

How magnificent he was, though, on the seawall of La Rochelle.

His eyes of stained glass and his hands of thin white silk.

His blood red cloak floating to the northern winds,  _my Armand who doesn't exist_ .

 

 

 

Seventeen.

 

 

 

 

_My Armand who doesn't exist_ .

 

 

 

I wipe my eyes with my sleeve. Watch the stains of saltwater fade on the old leather for far too long. How much more until I forget? How much more until the wind stops howling?

 

I let out a mirthless laugh, and open the door to my apartments.

 

 

 

 

I lock the front door, draw the curtains, cloaking myself in the dark, the usual, the usual.

Let out a cry of pain, gripping the side of my chest, at bloody last.

 

Taking off my boots takes twice as much time still, and hurts like a thousand blades, but I shrug off my coat and do it right away, focused, keeping my moans low. I don't want anything heavy on my skin anymore. The memories are bad enough.

 

I hear the cries of La Rochelle.

 

 

I let everything fall on a rug near the hearth. The weapons make a dull metallic sound as they hit the floor. Shirt and pants will suffice. The fire has been kept. Warm. Good.

 

I take a few long, lingering breaths. Checking when and where it hurts, looking for improvements, finding too few, the usual.

 

The little girl sings again.

 

I need wine.

 

 

 

I get up with a painful wince, walk to my cupboard, and the fire provides only a dim, yet beautiful light, though I don't need any. I know this place by heart. I grab the bottle, fetch a tin tankard, and a bit of the gingerbread.

 

 

My chair in front of the fire, that's all I want.

 

 

-” _Good evening, Captain_ .”

 

 

 

 

The tankard falls, clanging on the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

** PART TWO - WHITE AND BLOOD, SILVER AND GOLD  
**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No.

 

 

 

I very slowly put down the bottle and the bread on the table next to the chair.

 

 

Please, God, no.

 

 

And turn around.

 

 

-”Cardinal.” I wheeze.

 

 

And he comes to me, of course, twisted bastard, bloody devil, sliding out of the dark like a ghost.

And he's wearing that cloak, and he's wearing those robes. And I can't breathe and I don't care.

No.

 

No, not yet, please, I'm not ready to lie.

 

 

 

 

Fight.

I'll fight, then. This I'm good at.

 

 

-”How the hell did you come here?” I spit in a low growl. “Where did you hide your carriage, where are your guards?”

 

He joins his hands, straightens his back, clerical pose again, and yet his eyes as he passes near the fire are an open window to a raw storm.

 

-”I have none of that, no one knows I'm here. I came walking. Your backdoor through the armory is always open, you told me once, remember?”

 

-”You came  _walking_ ? Alone? From the bloody palace up to here? Are you out of your  _mind_ ? ”

 

I stride to him, grabbing his coat, hissing through clenched teeth, very close to him now. Fool that I am, fool I've always been. The wind from the breach is howling.

 

Fight.

 

-”Half of this country wants you dead, and you stroll through the city unguarded in your red robes, you reckless  _idiot_ !”

 

-” **I had to see you** !” he shouts.

 

 

His eyes may be wet at the edges, and I can't find anything to say, so he adds quietly :

 

 

-”It's been twenty days since you got my note, and I know you got it.”

 

-”You have your spies to bring you news of me.” I let out, distracted.

 

-”Of course I do. If I didn't you could be dead and I wound't hear of it!” he hisses.

 

-” **Then why the hell are you here?** ” I roar.

 

 

I am being cruel, because I think I know.   
He bloody  _walked_ alone through half of Paris, for God's sake.

 

He's not  _fond_ of me, right?

Oh, God, he's not _just_ fond of me. 

 

This is madness.

I am sorry, Armand, but fighting is all I know. All I'm good at. You have to understand this is madness.

 

I twist my grip on his coat tighter, have him retreating until his back hits the wall next to the hearth. He winces in pain, slowly raising his hands up in soft surrender.

 

 

-”Jean” he pleads.

 

 

The wind wails, breaking walls, piercing time.

Silencing for once the cries of La Rochelle.

 

He carefully lifts up a hand some more, one soft, slender hand, and Lord, please, you know I wasn't ready.

I was willing to wait, I swear.

 

I was willing to die without one more touch of those hands.

 

 

-”I had to see you” he sighs in  _that_ voice of his, and his fingers graze my cheek. 

 

His breathing is a bit short. His eyes, painted in ardent gold by the fire, are wide and fierce. He looks terrified, but he knows what he wants, he always does. He's brave, he always is. The wind is deafening. The wind from the breach in my very soul.

 

No, he has to understand.

 

 

I let go of his coat, take a hold of his hands instead, lift them up to my lips, and do what I can to hide my eyes. God, he has to understand.

 

-”You can't...” I beg. “We can't. You are Cardinal. You are France, to say it all. You can't risk that much, not for this, not for me, you...”

 

-”Don't you dare tell me what to do.”

 

He did try to sound threatening, but his hands are in mine and he can't hide the trembling. He can't dance, he can't run.

 

I look up and face him. My Armand who doesn't exist.

He's almost panting, I can feel his knees are weaker. His courage seems to falter with every second I remain silent, and if his back wasn't against the wall, he might collapse. It is strange, how thin he truly is. More powerful than a King, more resolved than an army, and yet, I feel I could break him like a twig.

 

But among the many things this man can be, there is no cowardice to be found.

 

He slowly pulls me to him until his lips touch my ear, he speaks, slow and desperate, and I could cry, I swear I could :

 

 

-”Listen to me carefully”, he says. “No one knows I am here. You locked the door. The garrison is empty, the dormitory is on the east wing. You never had any personal guard. No one will see, no one will hear, is that right?”

 

I nod.

 

-”Then all you have to do is answer a very simple question.”

 

He tilts his head, has our cheeks touch. My fingers twitch around his.

The wind won't be forgotten. The wind has been waiting for too long.

He will have his revenge.

 

 

-”Do you want it?”

 

His voice broke.

It's almost a moan now, it's Armand imploring me, and God, I'm sorry.

 

 

But I'm done for.

 

 

The breach has swallowed the castle. The wind destroyed everything.

I am in ruins, I can't breathe, I can't care, I can't think of anything I have to loose anymore.

  
_I'm done._

 

 

I straighten up, push myself against him, pressing his back against the wall, let go of his hands to grab the sides of his face, and he whimpers, bewildered, his pupils exploding into darkness. I'm hard, he feels it, and he can't run now.

 

I am in ruins, I am enraged, I am nothing but broken swords and battlefields. I am the hundred wars I fought, and I won't step back anymore.

 

-”I want that, and I want more” I grunt, my lips almost on his. “I want everything. I want your days and your nights. I want you. I want your heart. I want you mine, and mine alone, and if you came here to give me anything less than that, you can walk back to the palace, and you'll need a letter from the King himself to have me in your apartments again.”

 

 

His eyes are wild and fascinated, light blue and dark ice. His whole body is trembling now, and his breath comes in short huffs. Strange, how warm he is. Heartless as he seems, vicious as he can be. How warm his skin is, tonight.

 

He seems to struggle, choosing his words. Strange, it ever seemed to be that difficult to him.

 

I watch some detail of his silver hair, and I wonder how long I intend to keep on, if he walks away without letting me touch it. I watch the fragile skin of his neck, and wonder what would be the point of going on if I can't kiss him there.

 

 

He sighs, giving up on words, and I think it may be the first time.

 

His eyes of stained glass hold on to mine, and he unclasps the buckle of his coat, letting it drop on the floor with a plaintive hiss. His stare fixed upon me, with that desperate, amazing will of his, he takes off his cross and hat, holding them out in his hand.

 

Letting them fall at my feet.

 

_Klank._

 

 

He says nothing.

 

He said enough.

 

 

 

 

 

I kiss his lips, hard, open-mouthed and hungry. He's soft, he's warm. He smells like that herbal tea he takes for his headaches. He whimpers again, his hips against mine, and I swear I could cry.

He lets me in, tasting like tea and torment, his fingers clasping my shirt. For how long it lasts I do not know, but at some time, I remember my chest hurts, because I'm hissing in pain, and he has to hold me up.

 

-”You are injured”, he whispers, stricken. “We shouldn't...”

 

-”Oh, don't you  _dare_ .”

 

I pin him against the wall, harder, devouring that tender flesh of his neck. His pulse is a hundred war horses charging, his voice is honey poured on my very soul. “Jean”, he calls, and I don't know why, and I cannot care. I leisurely press one knee between his legs, lift up, and he chokes on a moan. I kiss his temple, lick my way down his jaw, my hands digging bruises in his hips, shifting him lightly up and down against my knee until he cries out, and I want more of his skin, and I want everything. His robes are in the way.

 

His  _cardinal_ robes. 

 

Oh, Lord.

 

 

 

Slapped in the face, dizzy and panting, I stumble back.

 

The man facing me, held up by a wall and what's left of his will, passing his fingertips on his jawline where my kisses left wet marks, and licking them in slow delight, is the Cardinal of Richelieu.

 

“Jean?”

 

_My Armand doesn't exist._

 

The silken red robe, praised by firelight, falls in heavy waves on my rugged floor, circling his waist draping his legs, flowing on the ground like a vibrant pool of blood. I can't breathe.

He seems to understand, he always does. He stares down at his own robes, and sighs. His eyes look for mine, and his hands work on the small buttons of his collar. I watch, entranced, as he slowly reveals the long white shirt underneath, in thinner silk, and his pale, pale skin. It takes a while, but I don't care. His fingers master dances no other human knows. He is magnificent, and my chest hurts. His eyes of stained glass. The hollow of his cheeks.

 

When he's done, he shrugs them off his shoulders, wearing them at the elbows like a stole, arms open, shy smile.

 

-”You see?” he whispers. “It's fabric. Nothing more.”

 

He's thin, but somehow lively, his iron resolve showing in the narrow limbs, the solid bones. His skin is perfect milk, something time itself didn't dare to touch. A few scars I want to hear the stories of. Fine breeches I want to rip down right now. God, he's beautiful.

He extends a hand to gently grab my shirt and pull me back to him. The slight tilt of his head could damn a thousand souls. The raw light of his eyes could outwit the devil. I'm done.   
  


I'm done for.

 

He takes my left hand, brings it to his lips, and I've seen that before. Once in La Rochelle, a hundred more in dreams. He kisses my palm, and when I dare think it's enough, he opens his mouth and swallows two of my fingers, taking his time, his eyes burning, burning into mine. Someone whimpered. That must have been me.

 

His pink, deft tongue licks a few slow circles around my fingers, leaving them glistening and warm, I can't breathe. I'm half mad with lust, half blind with want. I move to touch him again, but he slides away from the wall and, pulling me by the hand, smiling  _that_ way again, steps back towards my cot. 

Oh.

 

I gulp an ugly, dry sound, biting my own lips at the sight of my rough military linens, my old wool mattress, coarse and raw, even clean as they are.

 

-”No, you can't touch that, it's...”

 

He hisses under his breath, rolls his eyes, looking beyond frustrated now.

I'm sorry Armand, but you are...

 

You are France, to say it all.

 

 

He sweeps a sullen stare on my bed, then back at me. He inspects my face with those glowing, all-seeing eyes, and breathes, impatient:

 

-”You'd rather have me in silk, wouldn't you?”

 

He doesn't expect any answer, his eyes change, take a wicked, devious glint that has me panting in need. In a perfect, elegant move, then, he lowers himself on the bed, still wearing his robes, grabbing them low and throwing them over the cot until blood and white cover most of it all.

 

-”Is that silk enough?”

 

Oh, Lord. I was willing to live and die with only a dream to hold onto.

 

 

Now he's there on my bed, eyes dark, lips still wet, his robes crumpled at his elbows, his skin painted gold by fire. I can't breathe, I don't think I ever will.

He opens his mouth to call, but he has no time to speak. My lips are on his, my body is crushing him. He moans in my mouth, his arms around my shoulders, wrapping us in blood red silk, oh, Lord, I'm loosing my mind. In his own  _robes_ , for God's sake, I must be insane.

 

I kiss and graze his neck, feeling the supple tendons there, and I'm afraid I'd break him, but I remember the seawall of La Rochelle. I bite and lick the path to my own damnation, sliding down his soft skin, on his hard stomach, lower, maybe. I move a hand between his legs, and he spreads them a bit, his eyes veiled, his breath short. I stroke the bulge there a few times, just to watch his throat tighten, his mouth fall open, his eyes roll back. “Jean” he calls, and I think I know why.

 

I somehow pause there, waiting for him to grab me, toss me on the bed and bend me to his will.

 

He doesn't.

 

He just holds onto my shoulders, his eyes writing a hundred books of hunger and firelight, but he doesn't move. He looks like...

 

Oh, God.

 

-”You have no idea how it's done.” I gasp.

 

 

He growls briefly, turns his head away, is he blushing?

 

-”Who exactly do you think I am?” he spits at the dark next to us. “I am a Cardinal, I have no interest in...”

 

-”But you did keep mistresses.”

 

-”I paid for their houses and their silence, and made sure everyone saw me on their doorstep.”

 

He bites his lips, staring in anger at the dark between the cot and the desk.

 

-”Wait, you never...?

 

-”Oh, please !” He hisses, cheeks burning, and though he closes his eyes tiredly, he still looks like he could slit my throat. “I went through military school, thank you! There were a few girls...”

 

-”But never a man.”

 

-”Of  _course_ not, are you insane? I...”

 

 

 

His eyes snap open, and he turns to me very, very slowly.

 

 

-”Why, you...?”

 

 

 

 

I say nothing.

 

 

I said enough.

 

 

He has this look for me, this look he never had. A look made of tangled emotions, mostly shock, dulled by lust, and I dare say, raw admiration. I want more of this. My whole life seems to pass under the cogs and gearwheels of his brilliant mind, and confusion slowly fades into compliance. I literally see the exact second when he concedes my higher ground, and submits himself.

 

He suddenly seems humbled, almost tamed, and makes himself a little bit more pliant, lying on the bed. He lowers his eyes, loosening himself.

 

 

Offering himself.

God, I want more, so much more of this.

 

 

 

Strange, how wrong we were. How little we knew. I thought he was stained with so many sins, he thought I was made of virtue. How wrong, how wrong. We'll have to talk, maybe, later, but right now his fingers softly grip my collar; his brow knits a desperate frown and his voice is tense and anguished as he whispers to the dark :

 

-”Jean, please...”

 

I lean closer, breathe his name in his ear, he inhales, shivering. His hips lift up in a slow, undulating motion, and he begs, God, he begs.

 

-”Take me.”

 

I won't dare disobey.

 

 

I wish I could tell him it's been a long time too, so he doesn't take my skill as practice, but I won't speak. Not a word. Not anymore. I lay down flat upon him, our groins aligned, and start with slow friction, until he's moaning out loud, wrapped around me like a snake again. Be cause he is more interested than inexperienced, his hands find the buttons of my pants and do a quick work of them. His deft fingers grab my cock, stroking gently, his eyes following mine with raw curiosity. I must be to his satisfaction, because I gasp and growl and moan, and he just smiles like no devil could.

 

Oh, no you won't. I have  _one_ advantage upon you, you clever maniac, and I intend to keep it. 

 

 

I do, literally, rip off his breeches, and he gasps in shock. Good. Before he recovers, I dive down and take him whole in my mouth. He nearly wails, his hand flying to his mouth to bite on it. I gently bob my head, it's fine by me. He's not overly big, and he's soft. Easy. I try to remember, it's been so long. I circle my tongue around the tip as he did with my own hands, and his fingers clench on my shoulders, enough to bruise, I cannot care. I lick and stroke, and he chokes his own cries in his fist. Firelight seems to play with his hair, and never this bed has held so much silver and gold.

 

I am the richest man on Earth.

 

I try to remember how to hollow my cheeks, how to give those slow licks again. He won't notice if I'm not good, but I crave those cries of him so much. His hips shudder, jolting up a bit too much, I have to grab them and hold them down. He's soft, and he's good, and I could go on all night, but looking up, I don't think he likes it as much as I want him to.

 

Through a haze of desire, his eyes search for mine, as if even down there was too far from him.

 

 

I let go of him with a last slow rub, and slide up to his face. He smiles behind his unclenching hand.

I want to impress, but it's been years, and he can't see me hesitating, so I hide myself in the side of his face, licking his ear, sucking it, letting out a few moans, because his hips meet mine again, our cock sliding against each other, and he's learning fast, oh God, that man is a torture.

 

 

Whatever I decide, I have to do it quick.

 

Oh, well.

 

 

-”Armand?” I breathe in his ear.

 

I think he lets out a soft whimper, just because of that, and how I love the feeling.

 

-”Under the mattress, next to your shoulder, there is a small vial. Get it for me.”

 

He frowns, has a worried glance, but obeys without a word.

I want more of that.

 

His quick fingers find the vial and lift it in the dim light so he can inspect it with concern.

 

What, do you think I'll poison you now?

 

-”It's almond oil, don't you fret.”

 

 

I snatch the vial from his hand and claim his attention with a hard, wet kiss. I grind my hips again, good enough for him to close his eyes. Good. He doesn't need to see me spreading oil on my fingers, the questions wouldn't cease. He asked me to take him after all.

 

And he's higher than a King.

 

 

I bite his lower lip a bit harder, to distract him, I don't want him to pay too much attention to the first finger sliding in. He still gasps, shooting me a shocked stare. He looks like he could speak, and I'll have none of that.

 

-”We wouldn't be there if you didn't trust me”, I whisper. “Keep on.”

 

He obeys without a word.   
I want more.

 

 

I go deeper, crook my finger, and he cries out, a bit high-pitched, maybe. I could come right here, just at the sound of him. God, he'll drive me mad. My chest hurts, as if I cared.

 

I work him open, rubbing that spot again, and I don't think his eyes see clearly anymore. They're glassy and dark, half closed, and he's grabbing me like he could drown. He has a few hisses of pain, but not so much. I'm good enough. Still good enough. I add a second, and his hips move against mine like the snake he is. God, he's magnificent, and I have to focus on the wall, or I won't make it to the end. He breathes my name, and it's like a request. He spreads his legs a bit more, and it's a supplication.

 

I add a third and he starts whispering, I can't hear it all, something sweet, praises, I think, and my name, sometimes. His eyes are closed, and he's gripping me so hard I might bleed. His cries are coming free now, with each one of my moves, he doesn't even bother to keep a hand on his mouth, and if I don't take him right now, I might die.

 

Firelight of gold and silver.

I want more.

 

 

I slide my fingers out, and grab one of his slender legs to throw it over my shoulder. He almost looks outraged, and I have to bite his neck to the bruise, because I won't waste time with apologies. I push myself in, and I don't linger. God, he's tight, he's burning hot, he's everything. He screams in mild pain and frenzied lust, but his arms locked around my neck are urging me on. And as I move out slow, only to dive in harsh, his eyes stay with me, because he submitted, alright, but he's still my Armand.

 

My Armand.

 

 

I want to be good, I want to be the best he ever had, but God, he's magnificent, glowing skin and trembling hands, silver and gold, white and blood, the battle will soon be lost. I try to keep a slow rhythm, I try, I swear. But he finds a way to move with me, oh how fast you learn, you bloody demon. I feel his cock hard and throbbing against my stomach and I won't last.

I angle myself, using a hand to pin his clever hips down. I have one advantage, one.

 

He cries out, those cries again, high-pitched, almost delicate, and I decide from now on I shall live to earn those. I try, I swear I try, but my thrusts are erratic, too hard, too rough, beyond my control. I am sorry, Armand. The bed creaks. One of his hands flies up to grab the sheets above his head and he trows he head back, offering me this fragile skin of milk and firelight. I bury my teeth there again and again, marking him mine,  _mine_ , oh lord, I'm loosing my mind. His neck is where I want to die. 

 

I grab his leaking cock and give slow calculated strokes, and he could scream, but he can't, he's out of breath, he's out of time. He gasps my name, and something else, I think he's speaking of love, and I'm done, Lord knows I'm done.

 

 

His neck is where the battle ends.

 

 

I feel my hand soaked in warm waves, and he's spasming around me, and it almost hurts, as if I cared. The world is white and blood red. The world begins and ends with him.

Somebody moaned, somebody cried. It must have been me.

 

 

It must have been me.

 

 

 

 

I let myself fall on his side, and watch him intently, because he takes some time to catch his breath. He's almost wheezing, his eyes still closed, and I wonder if he's alright.

I grab his hands to remind him I'm here, and God, my fingers are still glued in semen.

 

It seems to alarm him, and he opens his eyes. They're like pools of moonlight. He doesn't look at me, he just lifts his wet hand to his eyes, and observes it, disoriented. Then, as he darts out a curious tongues and licks it, his stare finds me, and I could come again, this man is a torture.

 

 

 

He has a small chuckle. Well, my face must be worth it. I think he's considering wiping the rest on his robes, oh, Bloody hell.

 

-”Don't !” I hiss.

 

I curse under my breath, and pull off my shirt. I toss it on him, and he laughs at me, as if I cared. He cleans us, inattentive, pushes my shirt off the bed and grabs the old woolen blanket folded at our feet to throw it over ourselves. Softly, then, he lies down again, on his side, facing me, looking absorbed by a detail of my beard.

 

We don't speak, listening to the fire creaking, to our own breathing, to nothing much, really.

 

After a while, I start kissing him again, my hand dancing on his arms, up and down.

After a while, I find his neck again, and he sighs, and he's warm, and Heaven, how happy I am.

 

After a while, I grab his shoulder and pull him to me, devouring his jawline, and he huffs something.

 

 

-”What?” I pant.

 

-”I said : Could you really do  _that_ all over again?”

 

I pause. Consider. Shake my head.

 

-”No.”

 

-”Good, me neither. Now be quiet.”

 

With that, he pushes me back on the bed with a domineering hand and resumes his distant study of my skin. His delicate, lightweight fingers follow the trace of scars and burn marks, bullet holes, sword wounds. Of every war, every battlefield. Everything I am.

 

On my chest, the furious, blood-red scar of La Rochelle.

 

He doesn't linger on it, his fingertips quickly retreating, as if in shame. I open my mouth to say something foolish, no doubt, but he leans down to kiss the scar, so I shut it. He shifts up, then, kisses my brow in a tenderness I'll never believe in, and delicately draws a cross on my forehead, oh God how can he  _bless_ me after what we've just done? 

 

I search his eyes, he seems so peaceful. He's admiring me as if I was the most beautiful thing he ever seen, and I have no idea what to do with myself. On a whim, to get rid of that unbearable, gentle stare, I get up wincing like an old man, fetch the bottle and my tankard, pour some wine and offer it to him. He sits up, smiles like he has all the time in the world and drinks slowly.

 

It's strange, how anxious I already feel. It's strange how I can't be happy for two bloody minutes without a crushing wave of worry following like a shadow in summertime.

 

-”Armand...” I try, and fail.

 

 

 

His smile lights up like a morning sun, just for the sound of his name in my voice, and God, how I love him, fool that I am,  _fool_ that I am.

 

 

I'm done for.

 

 

 

 

 

-”I know”, he whispers, “you want to ask something like 'what now'.”

 

He takes a sip of the wine, barely hides a flinch of disdain, and hands me back the cup.

 

-”Now” he goes on, “I walk back to the Palace and...”

 

-”No.”

 

-”What, no?”

 

-”No way you walk back there alone. I'll prepare two horses and I'll escort you back, no argument.”

 

He gauges me wordlessly for a moment, his shoulders stiffening, ready for defiance, snarky remarks, authority. Du Plessis Richelieu threatens to speak, but after a time, he lowers his ice-blue eyes, and nods softly. My Armand submits, and how I love the feeling.

 

He spends some time lost in the contemplation of the scar on my chest again, and I wonder if he hears the cries at night. I wonder if he hears the little girl sing. I want to ask, but he moves to search his robes, oh God, he's still  _wearing_ them. He pulls out a small golden key of delicate handiwork, and joyfully drops it in my wine.

 

-”This opens a thick wooden door between the fifth and the sixth of the Rue de la Chapelle, I'll show you on the way back. There is a small corridor, and stairs down to a tunnel. The tunnel leads to the Louvres, straight to my apartments. In the future, make sure you're not followed.”

 

-”I'm not stupid.”

 

-”You are in love.”

 

 

I cough, spit some wine on the floor, shoot him the most hateful glare I can gather, and it's nothing much I fear.

 

-”And of course,  _his Eminence_ is beyond earthly emotions”, I sneer. 

 

He laughs, almost too sweetly, and leans down to kiss the corner of my lips, tasting wine and salt there, I suppose. He doesn't reply, he doesn't need to, he never will. I feel pathetic, I cannot care.

 

-”No one must know, Jean.” he pleads, his lips grazing my cheek. “You know what is at stake. For us, for France.”

 

-”Yes.” I nod.

 

-”No one must know, and if someone does accidentally, you have two options : make sure you can secure his silence with his life, his oath, and everything he holds dear, or apologize shortly before you shoot a bullet in his head.”

 

I nod again, and he sounds reassured, as he sweeps a loving stare upon me, my hands, my humble cot, my messy apartments. God, how magnificent he his. He is worth every silence, ever secret. Every glance behind my back. He is worth every scar, every arrow in my chest, he is worth a thousand seawalls, he is worth the cries of La Rochelle. He is France, after all, he is silver and gold.

 

My silver and gold.

 

On one last furtive kiss, he stands up, and I saw that grimace of pain, hah, fair game. He inspects his crumpled robes, sighs, and begins to button them up. No.

 

-”Let me” I cut in.

 

He frowns, watching me reverently close up the silken fabric, my fingers passing on the blood red waves by their own will. But he patiently lets me do it. I literally sense him registering the fact that I have a thing for his robes, and storing it for later use, but I cannot care. I am the Cardinal de Richelieu's lover. I better expect some plotting and schemes.

 

I am the Cardinal de Richelieu's  _lover_ .

 

 

He notices the smile, I suppose, but he doesn't ask. He gathers his cloak, hat and cross, checks my rooms for any traces of him twice while I put back my uniform, and silently follows me to the stables.

 

The trip back to the Palace is quiet and hurried, and I only speak to show him safe roads and shortcuts. We stop at rue the la Chapelle, and there's the door. He dismounts in a graceful move, pulls out his own key, of course, and before he disappears into the corridor, I have to grab his hand, check the surroundings, and kiss his fingers gently.

 

The hour right before dawn is always the darkest, they say, and well, I only see a faint glow where is eyes are. But I could paint his smile with a confident brush, just by the sound of his voice as he whispers :

 

 

-”I shall send word. Now, off with you.”

 

 

 

A hiss of his black cloak, and the door bangs.

Silence punches my guts, though I could swear I heard a little girl singing.

 

 


	4. Armand Cardinal de Richelieu

 

 

 

 

Every wall of Paris has History engraved in its stones.

If this one could talk.

 

 

The tunnel is narrow, and could be squalid, if someone hadn't lit up a lantern every twenty yards. I wonder if he does it himself. No, of course not.

He must pay someone to light those lanterns and never ask questions. Loyalty, or a bullet in the head, eh?

 

Where I can see the walls clearly, around the lanterns, I notice bullet marks, old iron rings hooked deep into stone. Are those latin words? How _old_ is this place?

I shrug. Well, look at me now, ancient stones of darkness, look at me now.

 

I am Jean du Peyrer de Treville. I was born the second son of a gascon merchant, well look at me now. I am the Captain of the Royal Musketeers, twenty three years of service. The King respects my name, my men obey my word. I have hundreds of glorious tales to tell. I have hundreds of wounds to remember. Look at me now, of all the glories I have known, this one outshines them all.

 

 

I am this man's lover.

I am nothing but a walking scar, an old book of battlefields.

Yet I am this man's _lover_.

 

 

That's why I am here sliding in the dark. Of all the crimes and all the sins you have hidden, ancient stones, how despicable are mine? Against nature, common sense, and every timeworn rule God and men have written since the beginning of time, those lanterns were lit for me tonight. He is waiting, hands joined I'm sure, anxious, magnificent, and though a thousand ghosts are howling shame into my ears, I can't wipe out that smile.

 

 

I won't.

 

 

I smiled far too much today, old stones, if you could see. They all wondered why. They supposed it was my chest getting better. It's not. It still hurts like poison daggers and fire. It still gnaws at my very soul. I just don't pay as much attention, that's all.

But they thought I was getting better, and they let me demonstrate five moves without smoldering me in bloody concern, and for that, Heavens I am grateful.

 

Hah, if they knew, old stones, if they knew. Hours have never been so slow. Hours until tonight literally _hurt_. In my guts, somewhere. I don't know. I heard poems about that and I laughed at their faces. I heard songs about that and I spat on their names. And yet, and yet...

 

Last night cut a piece of my beating heart and placed it in his slender hands.

I waited a whole day long to be complete again.

 

 

God, I must be insane.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The colour of the walls change, and I slowly recognize the sand texture of the stones of the Louvres.

I pass under a larger lintel, through a wall that must be three yards thick and centuries old.

 

The early foundations of the Palace.

 

I stop and stare at the old stone stairs spiraling up in front of me. More bullet holes, gashes and names. I can't help passing my fingers on them, in silent reverence, oh, if you could talk. You too have battlefields to tell.

 

I shake my head and hurry upstairs.

 

I thought it'd be easier.

But the stairs go on for ages and by the time I find a thick wooden door, I'm grasping my chest like dying elders do. God, it hurts. _Fool_ that I am, oh, what use will I be?

 

I clench my teeth, push the door open. Smaller corridor, much cleaner, in the sand stones of the Louvres. More stairs, oh, for God's sake. A finer, white wood porch. Two left turns, a nice oak parquet, and I know that kind of door. It's those secret panels of wood disguised as decoration or furniture, Palaces are made of them. Every secret goes through those. Every muffled step, every wary stare.

 

Servants, thieves, _lovers_.

 

 

His apartments.

 

I don't even stop to catch my breath.

I push the door, bloody hell, fifteen years I've walked around his reception room, I have never noticed this wall had an opening. I come in and close behind me, marveling at how the wooden panel slides back in the wall with silent ease, the painted paper in perfect continuity, the slits absolutely invisible. _Damn_.

 

The man is made of secrets.

 

 

 

Armand.

 

 

I snap out of my wonder and turn around. I was hoping for anxious and waiting, well, better expect some disappointment from time to time. It's Richelieu after all.

He's sitting at his desk, working, and he didn't even look up, oh, Lord, Armand, it's the bloody _second day_ , you heartless devil.

As I stride closer, unbelieving, he doesn't even flinch. He scatters powder upon his last letter, and blows upon it in idle elegance. He picks three crumpled notes out of a huge pile of documents and maps, and seems to compare them to his letter.

 

I let both my hands hit the desk in a bang, grunting something bitter.

He doesn't move a muscle, his focused eyes dancing left and right on the paper sheets.

Only when he's satisfied he slowly, very slowly deigns to look at me.

 

 

His frozen eyes, a bit worn out from reading in candlelight already, don't ever leave mine as he stands up in hissing red snakes. He slowly circles around his desk, only stops when our chests touch, and God, he's warm, and he's lifting both hands to my face.

 

And he kisses me hard, I swear if the desk wasn't right next to me I could fall.

He tastes like tea and torment, like last night, and as he sighs in my mouth and presses himself against me, I'm hard in seconds, I must be _insane_.

 

Calm down. Focus. For God's sake what's the point of me?

 

 

I grab his hands, kiss them both, hide my eyes, catch my breath.

 

 

He gives me a moment, merciful, and whispers in a smirk :

 

-”Good evening, Captain.”

 

His hands still in mine, he tilts his head to the side to find my eyes, and this smile he has, halfway between mockery and affection, has me almost laughing. Where is my will to fight him? This man is a torture.

 

-”Would you care for some infusion, Captain? You don't look well.” He speaks softly, moving away towards the hearth where a fine porcelain kettle is kept warm. “I have it prepared for me in Beauvoir, at the Carmelite convent. That's the only thing I can rely on to keep working, some nights.”

 

 

I nod, and try to look steady. Well, I would, if I wasn't mostly leaning on his desk.

While he pours two cups of that herbal thing he's addicted to, I distractedly take a look at his documents.

 

I love his handwriting. It's efficient, straight and far less decorated that those vain, unreadable scribblings you find at the Court sometimes. Yet it has elegance in the capital letters, authority in the underlining of some words. It's accurate and clear, it's subtle and firm, it's all of him in a few traits, it's almost art, and I should stop smiling like that.

 

 

His last letter, the one he was powdering as I came in, is short and has two words underlined.

 _ Douze ans _.

 

I frown, turn the paper towards me and read the rest.

_Au nom du Roi, Louis le Treizième, et par ordre indéfectible, j'ordonne la condamnation des susnommés citoyens de la Rochelle..._

 

Oh no.

I lift up the sheet, and of course, right behind it, is one of his bloody lists.

Twenty names.

 

Civilians of la Rochelle.

 

Condemned to twelve years at the Fort Royal, Ile de Ré.

 

 

-”You're not sending them to _jail_ , are you?”

 

 

He was approaching me with two cups in his hands. He stops dead, his eyes on the desk, and has a deep, bitter sigh. He slowly puts down the cups on a dining table next to him and somehow chooses not to walk any closer.

 

 

-”Those are the survivors of the South door sortie in August.” He states coldly. “They have attacked the Royal army and killed twenty-four Musketeers and soldiers of France. They should be put to death, but there were reports of only five thousand left alive in La Rochelle out of the thirty thousand before the siege, and I don't think this city can afford to loose twenty young men who will still be of good age in twelve years.”

 

 

-”Those men were desperate! The city was a mass grave, themselves barely above corpses, you can't punish their will to survive!”

 

As he doesn't move, I stride to him, my boots banging on the floor, and though he doesn't look like he wants to fight, I know he won't step back. He never does.

 

-”You can't do that! The city died under our siege, to the last child, you can't send those men away after all we've done to them! The city _**died** _ , Cardinal, isn't that enough?”

 

I yell, my face inches from his, and his eyes, suddenly locked up in a dignified, very _cardinal_ wrath, thrust daggers into my heart.

 

-”It's not about _them_ !” he hisses. “It's about the resolve of France and you know it ! It's about Spain and the Habsburg watching closely how we treat rebellion, it's about sending a clear message to the world, I have told you repeatedly, you stubborn gascon _mule_!”

 

-”Those are fathers and husbands. Twelve years! **Twelve,** are you insane?”

 

-”Six months for each soldier killed ! And need I remind you that if your Musketeers had done their duty on the ramparts this night, there wouldn't be any survivors to argue about, and there might not even be that hole in your lungs! They aimed to wound, **hah** ! As if they were paid for _sentiment_ !”

 

 

 

Filthy _bastard._

 

 

I grab his neck, push him until his back hits a high chair near the table, and I squeeze hard. Harder.

 

His eyes turn glassy. He twists in my grasp, choking, but he's not strong enough.

His neck is so thin, so frail, how easily I could...

 

_God._

 

 

I release him and step back, my hand shaking, as if bitten by a snake.

 

_No._

 

He coughs, his cheeks a bit red, and his fingers graze his neck in mild terror.

 

I retreat some more, quickly drowning in self disgust, and stop only when the massive oak desk hits the back of my legs, you should never have left me, it could say.

 

 

 

Oh Lord, is that how it is to be with him?

Is this how it will be from now on ?

 

 

-”Armand, I am sorry, I...”

 

 

He looks up, and he's not even angry. He's a bit sad, that's all. Maybe a bit lost. He's not surprised, he knew, of course, he knows everything. He knows how it will be. And he accepted everything long before I even thought about it.

 

I plead again, mostly to try and justify those bright red marks growing on his neck.

 

-”You can't condemn those innocent men, Armand, _please_.”

 

 

He straightens up, clerical pose, hands joined, gaze distant. Not a chance, his hands say.  
I don't stand a chance.

 

 

-”Watch me.” He breathes.

 

 

He walks to the desk right next to me, then, and picks up his quill. He has a burning look for me again, somewhere between sorrow and resignation. And with a graceful, delicate move of his slender hand, he signs the order.

 

_Armand Cardinal de Richelieu._

 

He folds the paper, seals the letter in blood red wax.

Seals their fate, those twenty men.

 

 

Punched in the guts, I swallow something coppery.

I may have bitten my tongue.

 

 

 

 

He circles around me, sliding on the wooden floor, red snakes whispering, still elegant, still proud, and yet.

His steps are a little bit slower than the usual. His hands joined together are clenched in a tight knot. His fingers tremble, his knuckles whiten. His brow is stressed with pain, red circles slowly tainting his eyes.

 

He stops, five feet from me, and collapses in his wide desk chair, his mouth tense, his eyes down.

The headaches are back, aren't they, Armand?

 

 

How come I _feel_ his pain so much, now?

 

 

I gaze at the letter upon the desk. I hear the cries, I hear the cries.

La Rochelle will sing upon my grave.

 

 

 

 

 

-”If I told you I'll leave if you don't burn that paper, will you?” I whisper.

 

 

Why did I say that? Hah ! As if I'd leave. Fool that I am.

Stubborn as my father was, I always _have_ to try once more.

 

 

-”No.”

 

 

Wait.

 

His voice was firm enough, but I heard, _I sensed..._

I look at him, and it slaps me in the face.

 

He's in shreds.

 

 

He's barely breathing, steady by a thread, pale as a sheet and shaking. God, he's in agony.

I can see that now, he's just a few feet away, I can sense the battle in him radiating in warm pulses, hurting him deep, bleeding him dry.

 

_Really?_

 

Really, you find a hard choice between state business and my mere _presence_?

 

Between France, and _**me** _?

 

 

Oh, God.

 

 

God, he loves me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

His exhausted eyes are screaming it straight to my face.

 

He _loves_ me, and it terrifies him.

 

 

 

He's in deep enough to hesitate, deep enough to falter.

Deep enough to be _weak_.

 

If I was a different man, if I was that kind of man. If I could do more than grab his throat for a few seconds and hate myself to the bone for it. If I pushed him further. If I hurt him harder.

He wouldn't burn the order, maybe, but he would reduce the sentence, he would let half of the list go free. Because I want it, he will, _my Armand would submit._

 

That's how it will be.

His Eminence de Richelieu, the true ruler of France, the willpower of this nation.

 

To me, he'll be Armand.  
To me, he will submit.

 

 

 

Oh Lord.

I have to grip the edge of the desk, because I feel dizzy.

He too lives in a castle with a breach he cannot fix. A huge, gaping breach with my name on it.

 

_If I was a different man._

 

 

But I am Jean, the second son.

Using him would mean hurting him, and no.

No, I'd rather die. I heard songs about that, and I laughed at their faces. And yet.

 

 

I would gladly die, it's true.

I never want to see him like that, not once, not ever.

 

 

And after all, what use would it be to me, that power over him?

Let's say I take this power, and all those disgusting means to use it. Let's say I'm that kind of man, let's say I grab his throat. I make him burn the order, the men of La Rochelle go free.

They're strong men, able with weapons, and their hatred for France is fierce enough.

They can gather more men, more weapons. The British aren't far. They can gather an army. They can start civil war. They can contact the Habsburgs and march on Paris, and everything we've done to La Rochelle would be for nothing.

 

He knows of course. He always knows everything. He saw every string of possible futures and weighed their odds long before I even thought about it. It all passed ten times under the gearwheels of his mind. I'm late. I'm in vain. What's the point of me?

 

 

Who am I to claim any understanding of the matters of state. Who am I but an old book of battlefields. The second son of a merchant. Who am I to pretend I don't know what it takes to be him. What a country requires of its ruler.

 

I won't say a word. He knows better than I.

 

He is _France_ , after all.

 

 

 

 

 

-”Would you do that?” He breathes shakily.

 

-”What?”

 

-”Leave me if I don't destroy the order.”

 

 

 

Oh, _Armand_.

I get up, gather his trembling hands in mine, and shake my head slightly.

 

 

-”No.”

 

 

He closes his eyes, exhales, wavering, and lets himself fall further into the chair with a soft ruffle of red silk.

All is said. I walk back to the table to pick up his cup of herbs, and hand it to him. I have to hold his hands steady around it for a while. I kiss his temple, his cheek. He seems to relax a bit, drinks up, shivers, has a soft smile for me.

 

-”I won't interfere anymore” I swear.

 

-”Of course you will. You'll be shouting at me until your dying day. But do keep on, my love. Maybe, once or twice a year, who knows, it might work.”

 

He called me...

 

 

I won't let him finish his herbs.

 

 

I lean down, circle a hand around the back of his neck and pull him to me. I kiss him with everything I have, I want to taste that tea forever. I lick and bite his lips, and he seems to melt. When he pulls apart to look at me in raw adoration, he wipes his damp mouth with is fingertips, and I know this dark, dark ice widening in his eyes again.

 

God, I want him _now_.

He gracefully lays his cup on the desk. He knows.

 

I quickly remove my uniform, throwing it all on his paperwork, making a mess of his neat desk, my pleasure Armand.

 

-”I have a bedroom next door” he wheezes, starting to stand up.

 

-” **Sit**.” I hiss between my teeth.

 

 

 

A challenging stare passes briefly in his eyes, chin up, hands clenched, but the loud clanging sound of my weapons hitting the desk has him freezing in dazed surprise.

His eyes search through mine for a while. Then he slowly lowers his head, and sits back cautiously, biting his lips in mild distress.

 

 

Richelieu won't speak anymore.

_My Armand submits._

 

 

I said I wouldn't use that power he gave me, well, maybe I only meant for _state business_.

 

I keep my shirt, because I fear he'll stare at that scar again. All the rest goes off, and the more it scatters his cursed letters and lists, well, the better. I pull my trousers down, and I _know_ he is watching, I feel it in my guts. I look up, and of course he does, his pale cheeks tainted in light pink, his deft tongue furtively licking his lips, his darkened eyes fixed upon my skin through his thick eyelashes. Lord, stop that, I'm rock-hard already, I won't last if you...

 

Looking flustered, he moves to unbutton his robes. But before he does, he seems to remember something and has a quick, bloody _charming_ smile for me. He raises his hands out of my way, and slouches in the chair like a whore wouldn't dare to, oh God.

 

 

He lets me do it.

 

I grunt and almost jump upon him, straddling his thighs hard enough to make the chair creak. I kiss him, wet and panting, and stroke the blood red silk for a while, ruffling it as it hisses softly, because we have time, because I can. He lets me do it.

 

I unbutton the robes, slowly, and yes, we might take a moment to walk to the bed at some point, but right now, I want, I _need_ him. Undressing him will take time, and he's clever. So while I busy myself with his robes, he slowly licks his fingers, his eyes boring into mine, driving me insane, and grabs my cock with his wet hand. He strokes twice and I almost cry out. How fast he learns.

 

I want to rip off the rest of his buttons, but I won't and he knows it. The red silk whispers, slowly revealing his pale skin, and he rubs his thumb around the tip, testing me, gauging me. I moan, my hands clenching around his slender hips, pulling the robes apart, covering us in white and blood again. He kisses my jaw, sweetly whispers my name, and I can't see a thing but blurred shapes.

 

I don't have time. I'm not that young anymore.

 

 

I slap his hand away from my groin. He retreats, compliant, but looks mortified.

 

-”I'm not very skilled I know” he stammers, “but I...”

 

 _Oh, for God's sake_.

 

-”Armand, you _fool_. Two more strokes and the night would have been over.”

 

 

His eyes widen as he gets my meaning, and maybe he blushes, I don't know. I don't have time.

I pull him out of his breeches, spit in my hand, grab him and stroke softly. He cries out. Good.

I move up and down, steady, until his hips quiver, blindly trying to meet my hand.

He tries to touch me again and finish what he has begun, but can't seem to focus long enough. Good. He's panting, flushed, and his hands settle on my sleeves, grabbing the fabric there, just like last time.

I remember something from years ago, and I shift closer to him, the chair is wide enough. I move until our cocks touch, and grab them both in my hand. I start stroking again, and this time he _shouts_.

 

He buries his face in my chest, in shame, I think, because he's crying out loud at every thrust, and I look down, watching our leaking shafts sliding in and out of my fist in shudders, God I don't have time. I still move harder, rubbing his tip, twisting slightly, I want to be good. I want him to cry out again. More.

 

 _More_.

 

He does, in my shirt, and on a strange, higher note. His whole body is trembling. He sounds like he's fighting for breath, and he starts begging, gasping my name again and again.

 

-”God, you like that, don't you?” I ask, amazed.

 

-”Yes”, he breathes, muffled by my shirt, and it's a shame.

 

I lift his face up with my free hand, I want to look at him.

 

His eyes are half closed, glassy and bright like frozen lakes, made ardent by candlelight. His brow is knitted in raw pleasure. His lips are red and swollen, God, he is beautiful. He tries to lock his eyes into mine, but he's too far gone.

I think I found his favorite. Good.

 

 

I change my rhythm, slower, tighter, his eyes roll up and he whimpers, at least _something_ I know more about than he does. Still good enough. His hips try to move up and down, the chair creaks, his hands grip my shirt, and he somehow finds a way to lick my ear.

 

 

-”Jean, please” he begs in that delicate voice of his.

 

I moan something, I don't know what.

I stroke harder, craving his cries. It doesn't last. I don't last.

 

He lets out one strangled cry, and he whispers my name again, and he praises me, and somewhere in the mess his words have become, he calls me like that again.

 

 _My love_ , he says.

 

 

I come hard, groaning. I see white lights and sandstorms, but I keep stroking until he tenses too and wails, twisting his fists into my sleeves, his hot semen joining mine upon the ruins of my shirt.

 

 

 

 

 

Again, he takes some time to recover. His eyes are still closed, his forehead on my shoulder, and for some time, his body keeps shuddering, small moans being torn out of his exhausted voice.

I can't hide a wide, victorious smile. He did like that _a lot_.

 

How warm he is. How beautiful. Mine.

 

I encircle his shoulders with my free arm and pull him to me, burying my nose into his soft silver hair. _Mine_.

 

We don't move. For how long, I have no idea, but my legs are killing me, I'm not that young anymore. No matter. No matter.

After a while he starts moving, his breathing evened. He lifts up my stained shirt with two delicate fingers and whispers :

 

-”It's becoming a habit.”

 

I laugh, wipe my hand on the front and pull the shirt off, throwing it away in a ball. His face tenses for a second, _Hell_ , I forgot the scar.

 

-”Well, I do my own laundry, you don't, so my shirt is safer than yours.” I let out to distract him.

 

 

It works.

 

 

He looks up to me, God, I could die for those eyes, it's true. I'll never laugh at those songs again.

I reverently rearrange his robes, not buttoning them up, just closing them loosely around him, checking them for traces, finding none, ruffling them, maybe, for no reason at all, and he lets me do it. I take far too much time to do so, and he endures, maybe with a sneer, but no matter.

 

The blood red silk is whispering. Thousands of secrets, none of them meant for God.

 

Some of them, maybe, now made only for me.

 

 

 

 

He doesn't seem to want to get up, slumped lazily on the chair, his fingers brushing my bare skin, his eyes peaceful and distant. We talk sweet nothings. I ask why he didn't wear his cross and hat tonight. He says they'd have gotten in the way. But you kept the robes, I breathe, and he just smiles.

 

I kiss his brow twice, he tells me I am handsome, though distractedly. I love your eyes, he says, they never seem to doubt anything. I like the way you stride, he says, you never seem to fear anything.

How long it lasts, I cannot care. We talk in hushed tones about the tea getting cold, just like the bath he had prepared for me in the bedroom. I laugh at his carefully laid plans, he endures, smiling bright as a summer day, Lord, how happy I am.

 

Candlelight on his silver hair.

I am the richest man on Earth.

 

 

-”I love you” I let out, and bite on my tongue. Fool that I am, I'll never learn.

 

 

But he just closes his eyes and breathes deeply, as if a thousand ghosts just slipped out of his mind.

Maybe they did.

 

Maybe he hears the cries too. The cries of La Rochelle, and how many others before ?

 

He won't reply, I know he won't.

He maybe never will.

 

 

 

He insists I drink some tea, I tell him I know the taste already, he blushes, and I laugh. I still drink. It's too rich and too sweet, but, well, can't do no harm. He lists the ingredients, lemon balm and I don't know what else. I won't remember, and I cannot care, because he speaks, joyful and smooth, and I never want it to end.

 

 

I never want it to end.

 

Eventually he falls quiet, as I search my uniform with one hand, the other gently caressing his neck.

 

-”There is something you said once” I tell him then. “You said that with two lines written in a man's hand, you'd find a reason to hang him.”

 

-”Yes.”

 

He frowns a bit, but I am brushing along the tender skin of his shoulder, and he almost purrs.

 

-”I never truly looked at you until you said that, you know. Before that phrase, I was sure I knew you by heart. How wrong I was, fool that I am. ”

 

His frown deepens, his eyes following my hand as I retrieve a crumpled note from my jacket.

I unfold it, lay it quietly on the desk for him to read.

 

“ _Rejoins-moi ce soir après les vêpres. Fais de même jeudi._

_J'ai fait tendre mon lit de cette soie rouge que tu sembles tant aimer.”_

 

 

-”This is the note I sent you today, to tell you to meet me here this night, and thursday night.” he says.

 

 

-”And to tell me that you ordered your bed to be made of blood red silk.”

 

 

His pink tongue licks his lips, his eyes falter, and he really _does_ blush a bit.

 

 

-”I did” he breathes.

 

His deft, graceful fingers pass on the note gently. My hand joins his, how warm he is.

How happy I am.

 

-”Two lines written in your hand” I whisper in his ear, making him shiver and sigh “Enough to have you hanged. Well, if it was signed. ”

 

 

He looks at me then, his eyes wide. A thousand years, a thousand words sail in the ocean they could be. I could drown, I'll never laugh at poems again. He looks, truly _looks_ at my face, as if to carve it in stone later. He stares in raw passion and pride, God, no one ever looked at me like that.

 

-”Armand” I beg.

 

Without a word, his thin pale hand goes back to his quill. Dips it in black ink.

Upon a short, sweet smile I've never seen before, he leans to the side.

 

 

 

And with this graceful, delicate move of his slender hand, he signs the note.

 

He **signs**.

 

 

_With love,_

_Armand Cardinal de Richelieu._

 

 

He folds the note in half, seals it in blood red wax, and presses it against my chest.

On the wide, angry scar of La Rochelle.

 

 

-”I trust you too.” he says.

 

 

 

And with that, I know.

He did reply, after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exact translation from french for those who might ask : 
> 
>  
> 
> Douze ans  
> = twelve years 
> 
>    
> Au nom du Roi, Louis le Treizième, et par ordre indéfectible, j'ordonne la condamnation des susnommés citoyens de la Rochelle.  
> = In the King's name, Louis the Thirteenth, and by unbreakable order, I condemn the aforementioned citizens of La Rochelle....
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> “Rejoins-moi ce soir après les vêpres. Fais de même jeudi.
> 
> = Join me after vespers this night. Do the same on thursday.
> 
> "J'ai fait tendre mon lit de cette soie rouge que tu sembles tant aimer.”
> 
> = I had my bed made of that red silk you seem to love so much. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> \+ NOTE : the image above is one of the few true signatures of Richelieu that survived. He usually signed in this peculiar order :
> 
> Armand Cardinal de Richelieu. 
> 
> It's much shorter (and practical) that "Cardinal Armand Jean du Plessis Duc de Richelieu", which is rather a spoken title, meant for official court introduction.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Please write a comment, I live for those!


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